


Full of Stories to Be Told

by sigh_no_more



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Courfeyrac is quite literally the center, Gen, Modern AU, Multi, not everyone knows each other yet
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-31
Updated: 2015-01-26
Packaged: 2017-12-31 00:55:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 46,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1025431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sigh_no_more/pseuds/sigh_no_more
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How the group found each other in the weeks before New Year's Eve through charity events, hospitals, band rehearsals and dance lessons and became the Amis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It Has Only Just Begun

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Bastille's Laughter Lines.

“This is cruel and unusual punishment,” Enjolras declared grimly.

“We aren’t being punished,” Combeferre, though he too looked miserable. “We are doing this for the greater good.”

Courfeyrac wedged himself between his two best friends and slung his arms around them. “Quit complaining. We look hot!”

Enjolras set his jaw firmly. The three men were in his childhood bedroom, crowded around a mirror. Each of them was wearing a three piece suit. Courfeyrac was the only wearing a smile.

“We look ridiculous,” Enjolras said through gritted teeth.

“You _all_ look handsome” said a stern voice from the doorway.

Enjolras’s mother, Camille stood behind them, smiling fondly.

“This is barbaric,” Enjolras told her stubbornly. “You are _selling_ us.”

Camille was not impressed by her son’s dramatics. “You agreed to help with the bachelor auction.”

“I said I would help with your charity ball. You did not specify we had to participate in the bachelor auction.”

Camille kissed his cheek. “If you read legal documents more thoroughly, you wouldn’t be in this situation.”

Enjolras could only scowl at that. He had turned to his mother, a seasoned lawyer for help in looking for loopholes in the student code of conduct that would allow him, Courfeyrac and Combeferre to stage a protest against their school’s stance on gender-neutral housing. While Enjolras was studying law himself, and didn’t especially care if he himself was kicked out of school (“Excuse me young man, you don’t _what_?"), he hated the thought of his friends being punished because of an oversight on his part.

His mother (after telling him under no circumstances was he allowed to jeopardize his education) had agreed to help. They sat together for hours, pouring over the code of conduct. Camille made Enjolras do most of the work, gently supervising, and pointing out things he missed, and giving him praise where it was due.

In exchange, Enjolras signed a contract his mother wrote up, agreeing he and his two best friends would assist with a charity ball his parents were throwing. It was only now that Enjolras was realizing the full extent of what that entailed.

“I’m your only child.”

“And I would expect any child of mine to keep his word.”

“If I didn’t read the contract you wrote more carefully, it was because I trusted you,” Enjolras said, giving Camille a look that would melt most people’s hearts. Unfortunately for him, it just made her laugh.

“Consider it a life lesson. When it comes to legal matters, never trust anyone. We’ll have to get those suits fitted later. For now, come downstairs, and I’ll tell you boys how else you can help.”

Enjolras only waited until his mother shut the door before stripping out of his suit at record speed. It wasn’t as if this was the first time he had changed his clothes in front of his friends. As per tradition, Courfeyrac whistled, and Enjolras threw his pants at his head. After sniggering, Courfeyrac also started to take his suit off, though more reluctantly.

“We should wear three piece suits all the time,” he said mournfully. “And hats. Nice tall top hats.”

“Don’t you dare give my mother ideas,” Enjolras said darkly. He suspected Courfeyrac had something to do with the implementation of the bachelor auction this year, which Courfeyrac denied only half-heartedly.

It turned outs suits were the least of Enjolras’s worries. The list of tasks his mother wanted them to complete was seemingly endless. They had to come up with a theme. They had to help find a good caterer, because Camille’s usual one had retired. Camille wanted to find a live band this year instead of using a DJ. And she wanted to coordinate this all the director of a local children’s center where the proceeds would be going.

“I think Enjolras should meet with the director,” Combeferre said, and Enjolras shot him a grateful look.

He was trying, really trying to be helpful. He just didn’t know the first thing about decorations, or how to plan an elegant menu. Honestly, he thought the entire thing was a frivolous waste of money. But for some reason, his mother loved to throw parties, and the Enjolras family’s annual New Year’s Eve ball had become an established event in the society circle.

Enjolras had grumbled about it since he was a kid. But as his dad said, “Son, your mother is going to throw a big party either way. We might as well try to raise some money for charity while she’s at it.” Then his dad always downed a scotch and put on his suit.

“I can do that,” Enjolras said. He couldn’t get into party planning, but meeting with people, and seeing how he was making an impact, that he could do.

“Good,” Camille said. “Your contact’s name is Feuilly. He started his non-profit a few years ago. It has some afterschool programs for kids, support groups for at-risk youth and foster children. He even wants to work with some local hospitals to make healthcare services more accessible for the kids and their families.”

Enjolras might have just fallen in love a little bit.

“If he wants to work with hospitals, I could help with that,” Combeferre suggested. “I’m still an intern, so I don’t have any clout, but if I play my cards right, and let them know all the good publicity they could get from a program like that, I might be able to get something from them.”

“Since those two are taking care of all the administrative stuff,” Courfeyrac said, waving his hand. “I reserve the right to help with decorations. I know a guy who does party planning, so I could probably get him to hook us up with some vendors for decorations. And Marius did a catering gig last semester, so I’ll get that company’s information for you.”

This wasn’t surprising. Courfeyrac seemed to know every other person in Paris.

“I also know a guy who’s in a band,” Courfeyrac continued. “They’re pretty new, but they’re _really_ good. They could probably help us out.”

Sometimes Enjolras wondered how Courfeyrac had time to study. Or sleep.

“One more thing,” Camille said. “I think it would be a good idea if you learned how to dance. Enjolras, you cannot stand in the corner and glare at everyone.”

“It’s a free country. I can do as I please.”

“Read your contract again.”

“Damnit.”

Courfeyrac’s brow was furrowed as he wracked through his mental contact list.

“Do you know someone who could teach us?” Combeferre asked wryly.

Courfeyrac sighed, and looked like he was ready to admit defeat. Then his eyes lit up. “As a matter of fact, I do! He’s pretty chill, so he could probably work around our schedule. And I don’t think he would charge us that much.”

 

***

Enjolras wasn’t surprised when he went to the kitchen of his and Combeferre’s apartment and saw Courfeyrac. Neither of them remembered giving Courfeyrac a key, and yet, they had often come home to find him already sprawled on the couch in what was now “his spot”.

He _was_ however slightly surprised to see Marius, Courfeyrac’s roommate sitting at the counter. Marius was a bit of a loner, and while he and Courfeyrac were close, he was always more reserved around Enjolras and Combeferre. (Enjolras was almost certain Marius was terrified of Combeferre after their debate about Napoleon last semester).

“Morning,” Enjolras said pleasantly.

He and Marius didn’t see eye to eye on everything, but Enjolras had grown to like Marius, even if he didn’t really understand him.

“Good morning,” Marius said.

“Marius can help us with the catering company,” Courfeyrac said. “I bribed him with coffee.”

“Coffee that is not yours,” Enjolras said, accepting a cup from Courfeyrac nonetheless.

“So guess what?” Courfeyrac said.

“No guessing games,” Enjolras said. “I have class in an hour.”

Courfeyrac pouted, but only for a second. “Marius is also doing the bachelor auction.”

Enjolras nearly spurted out his coffee. The only person he could see wanting to participate in the bachelor auction _less_ than himself was shy, bashful Marius.

“How did you get stuck with that?”

“My aunt,” Marius mumbled.

Enjolras winced sympathetically. Marius’s aunt lived across the street from his mother, and Enjolras saw what an expert she was at manipulating poor Marius into doing things he otherwise would never dream of. She still managed to drag him into things despite the fact he was on bad terms with his grandfather (or maybe that was how she guilted him into agreeing with her).

“He’s going to join us for dance lessons,” Courfeyrac said cheerfully.

“Might as well suffer together,” Enjolras said grimly, getting a small smile from Marius.

“Well, I’m off,” Courfeyrac said. “Things to see, people to do.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “See you later.”

To his surprise, Marius stayed rooted in his seat. It wasn’t that he was unwelcome there; he just usually shadowed Courfeyrac. But there Marius sat, passing his coffee mug from hand to hand, like he was making up his mind about something.

“Do you remember last week?” he asked abruptly.

“Yeah,” Enjolras said. They had been protesting immigration reform. Marius had been there, which had been unusual, since he usually avoided most political situations.

“You know the people who organized it, right?” Marius asked eagerly.

“Some of them.”

“Do you think they would know any of the emergency workers that were there?” Marius was looking at Enjolras like he had just asked him the most important question in the world.

“Maybe,” Enjolras said. Sometimes when he and Combeferre organized events, they asked people Combeferre knew from the hospital to come, just in case things got out of hand. It wasn’t unreasonable to think another student group took the same precaution.

“Can you ask them?”

“Any particular reason why?”

“There was a girl. I got knocked over, and she helped me and I want to find her.”

“To thank her?”

“Yes. And, um, to ask her out? Because she was kind of amazing and perfect.” Marius turned bright red, but stuck his chin out defiantly, as if daring Enjolras to laugh at him.

“Okay.”

“W-what?” Marius looked shocked Enjolras had agreed so easily, though Enjolras wasn’t sure why.

In the past, when Enjolras had made his feelings about relationships clear, he was talking about _himself_. He didn’t especially care what his friends did with their free time as long as they were happy.

 And Marius’s request was a reasonable one. He seemed to care as much about love as Enjolras cared about his causes. And Marius had been there to help with their activism, so the least Enjolras could do was try and return the favor. For a moment, Enjolras wondered what it would be like to have all that passion and energy focused on one person, instead of on a mass of them. But he quickly shrugged it off. He didn’t have the time to try and understand or pursue any romances of his own. He did have time to ask around for Marius.

“I said I’d help,” Enjolras said, glancing at his watch. “I have class soon, but I’ll let you know.”

“Thank you.”

Enjolras patted Marius’s shoulder reassuringly, before shooting Combeferre a quick text to give him a head’s up. Combeferre was about to start his shift at the hospital and wouldn’t get it for a while, but since he had most of the contact information for their fellow student groups, there wasn’t much else Enjolras could do for the time being.

 

***

Most of the time, Joly loved going to his internship. He had wanted to be a doctor for his whole life, and with his internship, he was a step closer to realizing this dream. He had only started a few months ago, but his initial excitement had yet to wear off.

Then there were days like today. Joly had woken up, and noticed a mole on his arm wasn’t quite symmetrical. The more he stared at it, the more he was convinced it was a few shades darker than it had been a few months ago. By the time he finished his commute to the hospital, his stomach felt like it had been twisted into several large knots.

He knew that this was most likely caused by anxiety, but _what if_ it was a symptom for something more serious? He was already mentally going through all of his medical textbooks, and within ten seconds easily thought of dozens of illnesses an upset stomach could be attributed to.

Joly didn’t go to the cafeteria for his customary pre-shift breakfast. He went straight to the break room, hoping Combeferre might be there. Combeferre often came in early to read his textbooks, or go over notes, or just collect his thoughts before starting a shift.

But he wasn’t there this morning. In fact, the break room was empty except for a woman Joly had never seen before. He was about to retreat and look elsewhere when the woman looked up from her magazine and spotted him.

“Are you okay?” she asked, setting it down.

“Combeferre?” That was about all he could manage to get out at this point.

She frowned. “Glasses?” she said finally.

Joly nodded.

“He was here,” the woman said. She was standing now, and looking at him with concern. “He got paged.”

Of course. “I’ll just go,” Joly said, miserably. But he couldn’t move his feet. He was breathing quickly, and shallowly. Was he having a heart attack?

The woman took a tentative step towards him. “Hey,” she said, her voice gentle, but commanding. “Breathe, okay? Breathe with me.”

She was standing in front of him now, close enough that he could clearly see her and follow her breathing pattern, but not close enough to crowd him. Joly tried his best to mimic her, and within a minute or two, he was breathing normally.

“Thank you,” Joly said, his face turning red. Now that his initial panic was gone, he was left with nothing but embarrassment. He didn’t know who the woman, but from her scrubs, and the fact that she was in the break room, he could surmise she was another intern. That was just what he needed- anther intern to witness a mini-panic attack.

“Do you want to sit down?” she asked.

Joly really wanted to get away and hide in a corner and then maybe track down Combeferre and have him take a look at the mole that caused all this. But his legs felt wobbly, so he made his way to the couch and sunk down.

“Do you want me to leave?” the woman asked.

Joly shook his head. He didn’t want to inconvenience her. The woman went back to the sofa, and picked up her magazine. Joly realized his horror that his face was damp from tears. He didn’t know if he was crying because he had been scared, or because he was embarrassed. Probably both. He shot a look over to the woman, but she was politely looking at her magazine.

“I’m getting some water. Do you want some?”

“No thank you,” Joly mumbled. “Before you go, could you? …Never mind.”

“What?”

Joly took a deep breath. Combeferre was the only one he really came to when he got like this. Combeferre was the only one of his peers who had never made fun of him or looked at him with pity, or like he thought he was an idiot. He didn’t even go to his advisors, because he was afraid of what they would think of him. But Combeferre wasn’t there, and was apparently busy, and if he didn’t do something about this mole, it was going to eat away at him all day. And the woman had already seen him have a small panic attack, and she’d been nice about it.

“Could you look at this?” Joly rolled his sleeve up, and pointed at his mole. “I- I thought…I wanted a second opinion, but Combeferre isn’t here…”

He trailed off miserably. The woman was already inching closer to him. With soft hands, she took his arm, and carefully examined the mole in question.

“I see,” she said after a moment of studying it. “It is slightly asymmetrical. I don’t notice anything else out of the ordinary though.”

“Yeah,” Joly said, shamefaced.

“Do you want to schedule an appointment with an actual dermatologist?” the woman asked. “I’m not an expert, after all.”

Joly shook his head, already feeling stupid.

“Okay,” the woman said, releasing his arm. “We can keep an eye on it though and make sure nothing else changes.”

Joly blinked at her.

She wasn’t laughing at him. She wasn’t judging him. She was just letting him know she would be there for him in the future if he needed her.

“Okay. Thank you,” Joly said, giving her a small smile.

Now at close proximity, and no longer distracted, Joly was just noticing how pretty she was, and felt slightly stunned.

“Any time,” she said sincerely.

“I’m Joly, by the way.”

She smiled widely. “Musichetta. I just transferred here from another hospital.”

“You’re an intern too?”

“Yeah,” she tucked a curly lock of hair behind her ear. “First day. Glasses, I mean- Combeferre is going to show me around when he gets back.”

“He might be a while,” Joly said. “I can show you, if you want?”

Musichetta got to her feet. “Why don’t you show me to the cafeteria? Rounds start in half an hour, but we could get a coffee or something.”

Joly nodded, grinning. He led the familiar path to the cafeteria, when he felt his phone buzz. It was a Snapchat from Bossuet, his…something. He wasn’t sure what they were. They weren’t dating, not seriously, or exclusively. But Bossuet had just sent him a picture of a kitten sweater one of his favorite customers was wearing, because somehow he knew Joly was having a bad day, and he wanted to cheer him up, and now Joly felt really guilty about how flustered Musichetta was making him.

It was going to be a long day.

 

***

Courfeyrac entered the Musain Café hurriedly. He was a man on a mission, and he could not let himself get distracted by the mouth-watering pastries on display. Or the delicious smell of freshly ground coffee.

He nodded at Bossuet, the barista. He’s talk to him later. First and foremost, he was going to extract the more difficult favor. He grinned when he spotted the familiar mop of unruly curls.

“R!” Courfeyrac said, sliding in the seat opposite him.

Grantaire nodded at him. It was lucky Grantaire came to the Musain all the time, Courfeyrac thought, or else he would be impossible to track down. He answered his phone only about half the time, and always seemed to be roaming the streets of Paris, doing God knows what. Courfeyrac knew Grantaire wrote for a food blog, reviewing restaurants and cafes, so he was always going new places. And yet, he frequented the Musain, going there if not every day, then almost.

Courfeyrac noticed Grantaire staring over his shoulder. He stopped when he saw Courfeyrac watching him.

“Just you today?” he asked.

Courfeyrac nodded. “Combeferre had a shift.”

He didn’t dare mention Enjolras. He needed to extract a favor, and Grantaire and Enjolras didn’t exactly get along, to put it lightly. On the rare occasions that Courfeyrac brought Enjolras to the Musain with him, he strove to keep him away from Grantaire. But it was impossible for some reason. Courfeyrac figured the universe hated him. Grantaire always had something he _had_ to talk to Courfeyrac about that couldn’t wait until another time when Enjolras wasn’t there. Or he happened to get up and get a refill at the same time as Enjolras. Half the time, they exchanged stilted small talk, and the other half of the time, Courfeyrac or Combeferre ended up intervening in some way.

“Oh,” Grantaire said. Courfeyrac thought he saw a flicker of disappointment.

“Do you want a refill?” Courfeyrac asked.

Grantaire was instantly on his guard. “Why?”

“Can’t I do something nice for my good friend, R?”

“You are the biggest moocher I have ever met in my life.”

Courfeyrac widened his eyes innocently, which just made Grantaire snort at him.

“Okay, fine. I need a favor.”

Grantaire waved a hand for him to go on.

“So my friend’s parents are throwing this huge fancy New Year’s Eve party. And we kind of need dance lessons.”

The answer was instant. “Pass.”

“But-”

“Not interested.”

“But Marius desperately needs lessons- you’d understand if you met him. But he’s too embarrassed to go somewhere in public for classes. And Combeferre’s schedule is too erratic for us to go to a studio anyway.”

“Nope.”

“But you’re an amazing dancer,” Courfeyrac wheedled.

“I’d make a shit teacher.”

Bossuet chose this moment to approach their table, carrying Courfeyrac’s customary sugary coffee, and a black one for Grantaire.

“Bossuet!” Courfeyrac said. “You’ll help me, right?”

“Maybe,” Bossuet said. “What’s going on?”

“My friend’s parents are throwing a New Year’s Eve charity party. They’re looking for a band. Might you be interested? Band gets free food and booze. The expensive kind.”

Bossuet ran a hand over his head. “I’ll talk to the guys. Text me the details?”

Courfeyrac nodded. “Thank you. I love you, you magnificent bastard.”

Bossuet chuckled. His eyes flickered to Courfeyrac’s sweater. It was an oversized monstrosity with snoozing kitten in its center. (Courfeyrac insisted not only did he make the sweater work, but he made it damn manly to wear clothes depicting sleepy animals). Before asking, Bossuet whipped out his phone and took a picture.

“For my friend,” he explained, hitting send. “I think it’ll cheer him up. He has a soft spot for cats.”

Courfeyrac shrugged. “The price of taking my photograph is playing music at fancy charity events. I don’t make the rules.”

“I’ll talk to Bahorel and Jehan,” Bossuet promised. “I gotta get back to work.”

“ _See_?” Courfeyrac said to an unimpressed Grantaire. “Bossuet is a good friend.”

“That he is,” Grantaire agreed, sipping his coffee.

“Please!” Courfeyrac said, starting to feel desperate. “I’ll get you an invite to the party for you and a guest. And I promise I’ll make Enjolras play nice.”

“Enjolras?”

Oh, shit. Courfeyrac purposefully hadn’t mentioned Enjolras. Now Grantaire definitely wouldn’t want to help them.

“Yeah, but I don’t know how many lessons he’ll need,” Courfeyrac said, backtracking wildly.  “I think he had lessons when he was a kid, he just repressed the memories, so it won’t take much to jog his memory-”

“Is he the loud blonde one?” Grantaire asked.

What? Courfeyrac stared at him, because _what_? Granted, Enjolras and Grantaire weren’t _close_ , but Courfeyrac had been dragging Enjolras to the Musain for well over a year. He didn’t bring him that often, but it was at least several dozen times. Grantaire and Enjolras had ended up at the same party more than once (Okay- just twice. Enjolras wasn’t huge on the party scene). Hell, they had gotten into an hour long debate over immigration reform not a week ago. There was no way in hell that Grantaire didn’t know his name.

Grantaire blinked at Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac blinked back.

Then the gears in Courfeyrac’s brain started whirling as things started to click into place. Grantaire’s posture- carefully casual and disinterested- did not match the eagerness Courfeyrac spotted in his eyes. Courfeyrac was a little confused.

He had gone out with Grantaire, and he had seen him flirting with people, and that was not even close to how he had ever interacted with Enjolras. He _did_ stare at Enjolras a lot, Courfeyrac mused. But finding Enjolras aesthetically pleasing didn’t mean that Grantaire liked him or wanted to spend extra time with him.

He decided to tread carefully until he figured out whatever the hell was going on in Grantaire’s brain.

“Yeah. He’s the loud blonde one,” Courfeyrac confirmed cautiously.

Grantaire nodded nonchalantly, like it didn’t especially matter to him either way, even though his cheeks were turning slightly pink.

“It might be funny to watch him try to dance,” he said eventually. “Okay. I’m in.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! This story was loosely inspired by Love Actually. And by that, I mean I thought it would be fun to write a story where it's getting close to the holidays, and not everyone knows each other, but they're all connected. (I decided on New Year's Eve instead of Christmas because I figured modern Amis would be fairly multi-cultural, and NYE is a pretty international holiday). Not all the characters were in this first chapter, but they will be here soon. 
> 
> The chapter title was *not* taken from Bastille's Icarus. What? I don't have a Bastille-related obsession/problem. Shsh Leave me alone. (Okay...it's from Icarus. I might have a slight problem, and might take all the chapter titles from their song lyrics. Don't judge). 
> 
> Feedback of any kind is always appreciated. Come say hi at babesatthebarricade. I always love talking to fellow Les Mis fans! 
> 
> (Also- I tried to portray hypochondria accurately with Joly. I did some research, but please let me know if I misrepresented it, because I don't want to offend anyone or make light of it. Thank you!)


	2. Rhythm is a dancer

Musichetta strummed her fingers, regretting her decision to not bring a book with her. She was waiting for Joly and Combeferre to meet her for lunch. They were already ten minutes later, and she wished she had at least brought notes with her so she could use the time to review. She had snagged a table in the crowded cafeteria, and was getting increasingly nasty looks for sitting at a fairly large table alone.

Of course, Musichetta had never really cared much about what people thought, but she was getting tired of explaining to people that she was saving seats. And she had had to physically stop one of the lab workers from stealing a chair, which she was almost positive would come back and bite her in the ass at some point. She would have given away one of the chairs, since there were four, and she only needed three. But so far when people asked for it, they had stared at her breasts when speaking to her, and she had refused to surrender the chair to any of them.

She saw from her peripheral vision someone approach her table, and was ready to scare them off. Then she got a good look at the person, and Jesus, the table-approacher looked like a Disney princess. For god’s sake, her scrubs had kittens on them. Musichetta couldn’t yell at her.

“Is anyone sitting here?” the Disney princess asked. Her voice was soft, and she looked like she was already regretting her decision to ask.

Musichetta considered. “I have two friends joining me, but the fourth chair is free,” she finally said, pushing out the chair directly across from her.

The Disney princess sat down gratefully, tucking her shiny brown hair behind her ears. “Thanks,” she said. “I didn’t think it would be this crowded.”

“You new here too?” She must be, if she didn’t know the cafeteria turned into a zoo at lunchtime. Musichetta had been there for all of a week, and even she knew that.

The girl shook her head. “No. I’ve been a pediatric nurse here for about a year. But I usually work the night shifts. They just switched me to work daytime ones.”

“Good?” Musichetta said. She wasn’t sure which shift was more desirable.

The girl nodded. “Good,” she agreed. “The night shifts made it hard for me to spend time with my father.”

Musichetta decided she definitely liked this girl. She seemed to be just as sweet as her outer appearance. “I’m Musichetta.”

“Cosette,” she said, smiling shyly.

The two women sat in comfortable silence for a minute. Cosette nudged her tray forward, offering Musichetta access to her fries. Musichetta, who had not eaten yet (she’s been too focused on securing a table and then guarding it to get food), gladly accepted.

“It must have been hard to date when you did all the nightshifts,” Musichetta said conversationally. She had volunteered at a hospital during her undergrad during night shifts, and the lack of social life had made a lasting impression.

“Not really. I don’t really date,” Cosette said, as if the idea of her dating was ridiculous.

“Why? Lack of interest?”

Cosette nodded. “I’m not really the kind of girl guys want to date.”

Musichetta nearly choked on her fry.

“I’m sorry,” Musichetta said, trying not to laugh. Cosette looked a little affronted. “I was asking if _you_ didn’t want to date. Because of course people want to date you.”

Now Cosette looked like she wasn’t sure whether or not Musichetta was making fun of her or not, and Musichetta was forced to wonder if Cosette really didn’t know that she was pretty.

“You’ve been sitting here for less than five minutes, and I’ve seen three guys check you out. You’re cute. Accept it.”

“ _Me_?”

“This _is_ the hot table.” Musichetta finally spotted Joly and Combeferre approaching. “Oh, watch out. Hot table is about to get hotter,” she added loud enough so that she knew they both heard her.

Joly turned beet red, and Combeferre adjusted his glasses, a tick of his when he was nervous. And while both men were admittedly handsome, the most attractive thing about them at the moment was the several trays of food they were both carrying.

“Sorry, we’re late,” Joly said. “We got held up with one of our patients.”

“That’s okay. I made a new friend,” Musichetta said. Cosette looked surprised to be introduced as such. “And you came bearing food.”

“We saw the line and figured we’d better go ahead and get lunch as a peace offering for making you wait,” Joly said, handing Musichetta a chicken wrap. She was secretly ridiculously happy that he already knew her regular cafeteria order.

“We trusted you to fend everyone off,” Combeferre added, smiling.

“Fair enough,” Musichetta said. “So, Cosette, are the daytime doctors cuter than the night staff?”

“I haven’t really paid attention,” Cosette said. “I’m not really looking for anyone at the moment. I mean, the last time someone was attractive enough to make an impression was a few weeks ago.”

Musichetta raised her eyebrows. “Oh _really_?”

Cosette blushed. “Nothing happened! It was at a protest, and everything happened so quickly, I didn’t even get his name.”

“That could have been your soul mate,” Joly said, his solemn tone undermined by the teasing expression in his eyes.

“Ah yes,” Cosette said. “Random protest cutie. My one true love.”

She seemed to grow more and more relaxed towards them by the second.

“What protest was that?” Combeferre asked.

“It was on immigration reform,” Cosette said.

Combeferre’s face lit up. “At the end of last month? You were there?”

Cosette nodded. “A few of the other nurses knew some of the organizers, and they invited me.”

That was all it took for Combeferre to inch his chair closer to Cosette, and for the two of them to launch into an earnest conversation about their views on immigration and about the protest.

Musichetta was content to listen to them as she downed her food. Combeferre was usually calm and reserved, so she especially enjoyed listening to his passion come out as he ranted about a new legislation. Joly nudged her.

“I’ve gone with him and his friends a few times to some protests. You should come next time,” he said.

“Are you asking me on a hypothetical social justice date?” Musichetta smiled flirtatiously.

“Not a date,” Joly said hastily. “Just a…social justice…thing.”

He was blushing. Musichetta didn’t understand him. He did things like notice what food she liked, and ask her to accompany him places, and stare at her with open admiration. He had even seemed happy when he found out she was single. But every time she tried even a bit of light flirting, he got flustered and awkwardly changed the subject.

Sure enough: “So it looks like they got new recycling bins. How about that?”

 

***

In the many years that Courfeyrac had known Enjolras, he had only seen Enjolras have one or two crushes (although Enjolras hated that term). He had never seen him _swoon_.

Then they meet Feuilly.

Enjolras was initially supposed to meet Feuilly by himself. But since Combeferre had volunteered to try and help with the proposed hospital partnership, he decided he should also meet Feuilly. Courfeyrac’s plans for the afternoon had entailed “bothering Combeferre and Enjolras”, so he decided to tag along, for lack of anything else to do.

To their surprise, Feuilly was young- around their age. When Enjolras’s mother had told them they were meeting with the director and founder of the center, they assumed he would be much older.

The shelter had already reached hundreds if not thousands of students, and had won dozens of local awards for its afterschool programs and the work it had done for at-risk youth and foster children. Naturally, they thought they would be dealing a more experienced director. The young (if somewhat tired) man they were introduced to was not at all what they had expected.

“Step into my office,” he said.

The trio followed him into a cramped corner office. The walls were lined with overflowing bookshelves, world maps, and faded inspirational posters. Feuilly moved a stack of files off a few chairs, and gestured for them to sit.

“Tea?” They shook their heads. Feuilly sank into swivel chair behind the desk. “So I assume you’ve read the file I prepared for you?”

Enjolras nodded eagerly, and pulled his annotated copy out from a folder. “Yes, and I have to say that I’m impressed with what you’ve managed to do here. It’s absolutely incredible, and I’m surprised the city doesn’t have more programs like this.”

“I was too. I grew up in the foster system, and I always thought a place like this would help,” Feuilly said matter-of-factly. He wasn’t asking for sympathy or admiration- he was just speaking the truth.

Courfeyrac almost sniggered at the look on Enjolras’s face. He looked ready to make a declaration of love. Combeferre nudged Enjolras.

“Right. Sorry. We had a few ideas we wanted to run by you,” Enjolras said. “I noticed you have several afterschool art programs.”

Feuilly nodded. “Those are my pet projects. Arts and crafts have always been hobbies of mine. It’s nice to be able to share.”

“Well we were thinking for the event itself, the kids could help with the decorations. We can supply the materials, and have them work on it as one of their projects. That way, the donors can have a visual reminder of what the center is accomplishing. It might encourage them to give some additional funds.”

Feuilly nodded. “That’s a good idea.”

“Same with the music program.” Combeferre said. “The choir or orchestra could perform earlier in the evening, if we get the proper permission.”

“I’ll see if I can organize that,” Feuilly said.

“We could help, if you don’t mind,” Courfeyrac offered.

“I hate to ask,” Feuilly said. “You’re already going to be _giving_ us a lot of money.”

“We like to be hands on,” Enjolras assured him.

They discussed other things that needed to be done, new ideas Feuilly had come up with, and were just in the middle of drawing up a time table when something caught Courfeyrac’s eye.

“What’s that?” He pointed to a piece of green paper on Feuilly’s crowded desk.

“It’s a wish list I’m passing on to Santa,” Feuilly said, getting up and crossing the room. After making sure there were no kids around, closing the door, and lowering his voice he added, “A lot of the kids don’t get any presents. I’m going to find a way to make sure they all get something.”

He ran a hand through his hair, his eyes looking tired. Even from a preliminary look at the center’s budget, it was clear how carefully Feuilly had divided his resources. It was downright miraculous that he managed to do so much with so little. But fulfilling all the kids’ requests would undoubtedly be a strain.

“Me,” said Courfeyrac. Everyone turned to stare at him, so he decided to expand. “Give the list to me. I’ll take care of it.”

“You?” Feuilly repeated. He didn’t seem quite sure that he had heard Courfeyrac correctly.

Courfeyrac nodded enthusiastically. “Sure. Christmas is my favorite holiday.”

“Every holiday is your favorite holiday,” Combeferre muttered.

“And I’m the best present-giver,” Courfeyrac continued as if he hadn’t been interrupted. “But _those two_ never let me get them anything. They always tell me what charities to donate to.”

“We don’t _need_ anything,” Enjolras said tiredly. They had this conversation every year.

“It’s not about needing things,” Courfeyrac responded automatically. They could do this argument in their sleep. “Anyway, you guys have all the logistics and coordinating stuff covered between the three of you. Let me do this.”

Feuilly considered him. “Okay. That would be…that would be great, actually.”

Courfeyrac reached out for the list, but Feuilly didn’t surrender it just yet. He stared into Courfeyrac’s eyes. “If you’re going to do this, I need you to do this, okay? Don’t say you’re going to get the kids presents, and then flake out halfway through.”

“I promise, every kid is getting a present,” Courfeyrac said, unusually solemn.

“We’ll help, if you need it,” Combeferre said. Enjolras shot him a look. “Enjolras, they’re _kids_. If it’ll make you feel better, you can rant about the commercialization of the holiday season in the car.”

“Fine,” Enjolras. “But don’t think I won’t rant.”

“Looking forward to it,” Combeferre said dryly. “In the meantime, I thought we’d run over the proposed hospital program.”

“I think I’ll need some coffee for that,” Feuilly said, rubbing his hands over his face.

“I’ll get it,” Courfeyrac said. “I won’t be much use here anyway.”

“Down the hall, second door on the left,” Feuilly said gratefully.

The kitchens were large, and Courfeyrac had to open several cupboards before he could find any cups. The coffee pot itself was dirty, so he opened the cabinet under the sink to find soap, but instead found himself face to face with a scowling child.

“Hello,” Courfeyrac said easily. “Got any soap down there?”

The kid sized him up, before reaching behind him and handing it to Courfeyrac.

“Thanks,” He set the pot in the sink. “Cabinet door open or closed?”

“Open,” the kid said after contemplating. “It gets hard to breathe there after a while.”

Courfeyrac nodded as if this were a perfectly normal conversation he was having. “Why were you hiding?”

“My sister,” the kid replied. “I got in trouble at school. When she comes to pick me up, she’s going to be mad.”

After starting the coffee, Courfeyrac leaned against the counter, and considered the kid. “I’ll give you a piece of advice if you give me a piece of gum.”

“I don’t have gum,” the kid said.

“Yes you do. You nicked a pack from my pocket right after you handed me the soap.”

The kid’s eyes widened. He reached into his pocket and tossed Courfeyrac’s gum at him without an ounce of embarrassment. Courfeyrac took a stick out, then threw the pack back.

“I don’t need the whole pack. Just a stick.” He unwrapped the gum, and inserted it in his mouth. “So here’s the advice, kid: in my experience, big sisters usually have a way of finding you no matter where you hide. And they’re usually mad they had to go through the trouble of finding you. Just embrace your destiny.”

As if on cue, a haggard looking young woman poked her head in. She looked like she might be pretty, if she weren’t so tired. “There you are,” she said. “I’ve been looking all over for you. You got in _another_ fight at school?”

“I didn’t get in a fight,” the kid said defensively. “The eighth graders tried to take my lunch money and I got them to hit each other instead of hitting me.”

The woman’s mouth twitched up in a ghost of a smile that quickly vanished. “Regardless, I had to leave work early to have a talk with your principal. And then I wasted another ten minutes because you decided to hide-”

“He was actually showing me around the building,” Courfeyrac said.

The woman barely spared him a glance. “Oh. Well…” she chewed her lip, clearly not wanting to tell her brother off for doing a good deed, but also clearly still annoyed at her time being wasted. “Just next time I tell you I’m picking you up, be on time.”

And she walked to the door without so much as a second glance at Courfeyrac. The kid on the other hand shot him another quizzical look, as if trying to figure him out.

“Later, kid,” Courfeyrac said, returning to the coffee pot.

The kid tilted his head to the side, coming to a decision. “The name’s Gavroche,” he said, before scampering off.

 

***

 “Gentlemen,” Bossuet said. “You’re probably wondering why I assembled you.”

Jehan looked up from where he was taking his guitar out of his case. “You didn’t. This is just band practice.”

“Shhhh,” Bahorel looked more than delighted to go along with Bossuet’s game. He lowered his voice. “Do we have a new mission, Director Fury?”

“Oh, now you’re just being racist.”

“I am not!”

“Is it because I’m bald?”

“It’s because you’re a badass. Now what were you going to tell us?”

“I have us a potential gig,” Bossuet said excitedly. “A friend’s friend’s parents are throwing some big New Year’s Eve party.”

“Sounds promising,” Bahorel replied.

“It’s a charity ball, and they’re raising money for a children’s center downtown,” Bossuet continued eagerly. “They’ll pay us the usual fee, plus we get food and drinks. And it’s going to be a society event, so it’ll probably get some press coverage, which could be good for us.”

The last part wasn’t really important to Bossuet; he was in the band purely because he liked playing, and he loved his band mates. He had been in a band before where they cared too much about getting “discovered” and put minimal effort in creating music. (Of course, they had landed a record deal less than a week after Bossuet left, and were doing pretty well for themselves. He jokingly called himself their Pete Best).

Bahorel and Jehan also put their music first, but Bossuet knew they wouldn’t mind getting a little extra publicity. Bahorel had dropped out of law school to pursue the band full time, and while he didn’t necessarily care about making a lot of money from the band, as he put it, it would be nice to make _some_ money. (At least he had parents sending him a monthly stipend). Bahorel probably dropped out of law school for the same reason as Bossuet: they both knew it wasn’t in their destinies to be lawyers. The only good thing that came from the experience was that they had met each other.

“It sounds good to me,” Bahorel said.

Jehan nodded his assent.

“Great. I’ll let Courfeyrac know. He said they might want to sit in on a rehearsal before officially booking us.”

“Curly headed kid?” Bahorel’s face lit up. “I love that dude.”

Bossuet snorted. “I’ll let him know that’s his identifier.”

“What kind of music do they want?” Jehan asked. “Aren’t we a little too rock for a society event?”

“Courfeyrac said we could do originals, as long as we squeezed in a few covers to appease the less musically adventurous.”

“We should probably write a few new ones before then,” Bahorel said thoughtfully. “We have about a month. Jehan, any luck finding your muse yet?”

“He or she remains elusive,” Jehan replied.

Bahorel shrugged. “Let me know if you find him or her. If not, I can try to write-”

“ _No_ ,” Jehan and Bossuet said simultaneously. Bahorel was an excellent singer, a skilled guitarist, and a perfect front-man, but his last attempt at songwriting produced lyrics that a five year old could have written, and caused a frustrated Bahorel to almost smash his guitar against a wall.

“Fuck you guys,” Bahorel said. “Okay, let’s start. From the top.”

 

***

Grantaire arrived at the dance studio at least half an hour early. For a man who was perpetually late, this was a rare occurrence. He had to cash in a bunch of favors with his cousin, who owned the place, but it was worth it. He had the studio to himself once a week for two hours for the next six weeks.

He made sure everything was perfect before his students arrived. His laptop was set up, several playlists opened- just in case. Even though they probably wouldn’t get that far on the first day. His hoodie had been nearly folded and placed on top of his messenger bag in the corner. This was another rare occurrence; usually Grantaire left mini-disasters in his wake.

But Enjolras was coming, and Grantaire was determined not to fuck it up. He could still hardly believe he was going to see Enjolras on a weekly basis. Or at least on a weekly basis until Enjolras learned how to dance. Usually, if he was lucky, he saw him once or twice a month.

The door swung open, and in came Enjolras, flanked by Combeferre and Courfeyrac.

“Greetings, oh mighty teacher,” Courfeyrac called.

Grantaire glanced at his cell phone. “You guys are 15 minutes early.”

“I know,” Courfeyrac said. “I wanted to get coffee, but _someone_ was afraid we’d be late.”

“Grantaire is helping us for free,” Enjolras replied. “It would be incredibly rude to be late.”

“Not free. Grantaire was promised a ticket to a party and free booze,” Grantaire said quickly.

“It would still be rude,” Enjolras said, tugging off his scarf.

He should have expected this, Grantaire thought. Enjolras was a stickler for punctuality. He had seen Enjolras impatiently glance at his watch when he got to the Musain before Courfeyrac, and glaring at him for being just a few minutes late.

The Musain. It had become a semi-regular haunt of Grantaire’s. The food was decent, though not the best. The atmosphere was pleasant. But truthfully, Grantaire cared little about either. He kept retuning on an almost daily basis in the hopes that Enjolras would be there too.

If Grantaire wanted to, he was sure he could bump into Enjolras elsewhere. He knew where Courfeyrac went to school, and he had discovered Enjolras went there as well. But would never dare intrude on Enjolras’s life like that. He allowed himself only the pleasure of seeing Enjolras on the rare occasion he ventured to the Musain, which was a more neutral territory.

Over the past year, Grantaire had heard (and mocked) Enjolras’s views. But the man himself was tight-lipped about his personal life- or maybe he just hadn’t felt like sharing with Grantaire. Either way, Grantaire had been reduced to collecting scraps of information about Enjolras. Things he heard, things he saw- he hoarded these pieces of Enjolras like they were precious treasures.

One of those nuggets: Enjolras liked to be on time.

“Marius isn’t here yet,” Courfeyrac pouted.

“We probably shouldn’t have let him come by himself,” Combeferre said. Marius notoriously lacked any sense of direction.

“Before we start, remind me: you’re Combeferre, and _you’re_ Enjolras?” Grantaire said, pointing.

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “You’ve known us for over a year.”

“Yeah, well,” Well, Grantaire was terrified of letting on how crazy he was about Enjolras. He was scared of how much he cared, because he tried to hard _not_ to care about anything, but it was impossible to not care about Enjolras. “I know a lot of people. And I’m bad with names. My life doesn’t revolve around you, blondie.”

“No one said it did,” Enjolras said, looking annoyed. “I just assumed if you saw someone on a semi-regular basis, you’d remember their names.”

“It’s locked in here now,” Grantaire tapped his head. “Though I think blondie suits you better.”

“I hope Marius won’t be too late,” Courfeyrac said loudly stopping any fighting before it could start in earnest.

Marius was only a little late (five minutes. Five long minutes of Enjolras huffing and staring at his cell phone pointedly, even though Marius wasn’t there to see). When he finally came, he shrugged off his coat, dropped his backpack with a loud _thud_ , and hurried over to the wall where everyone else was gathered.

“Sorry I’m late. I got lost,” he admitted, surprising no one.

“Not a problem,” Grantaire said. “I’m Grantaire, you’re Marius. It’s nice to meet you, no the pleasure’s all mine. Great. Introductions are done, now partner up.”

The four men moved almost reflexively. Marius all but seized Courfeyrac, who put a protective arm around him. Combeferre and Enjolras were less dramatic; they moved so they stood a comfortable distance from each other, ready to reach out and hold each other when it was time to start. (Grantaire couldn’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy that Combeferre would get to dance with Enjolras).

“We’re going to start with a waltz. It’s pretty basic.”

Marius let out a sigh of relief at that. Courfeyrac gave his shoulders a reassuring squeeze.

“Courfeyrac? Let go of Marius for a sec, and come up here and help me demonstrate.”

Courfeyrac didn’t necessarily have discipline, but he was a natural dancer, his body moving with an easy flow.

“I’m going to lead Courfeyrac. Where our hands are would only really be important if this were a ballroom competition. It’s more lax when you’re dancing for leisure. Do what feels comfortable. What’s important is the footwork, so watch us. One, two, three. One, two, three.”

Combeferre and Enjolras watched for a minute, before trying it out themselves. Grantaire released Courfeyrac, and let him try it out with his partner.

As Grantaire had guessed, Marius required the most attention out of the group. He had a lanky build, and minimal control over his gangly limbs. The thing most destructive to his dancing however, was his utter lack of confidence. Grantaire kept his teasing to a minimum because Marius’s face was tomato red, and he kept apologizing.

“How about we take a quick water break?” Courfeyrac said, after Marius stepped on his foot for a third time in a row.

“ _Sorry_ ,” Marius said. “I’ll get the hang of it, I promise.”

“We’ll practice later,” Courfeyrac promised. “You just need a break.”

“He’s right,” Grantaire said.

Courfeyrac snorted. “Of course I am. Let’s go, Pontmercy.”

With the pair gone, at long last, Grantaire could observe Enjolras and Combeferre. They were good, though not great. Grantaire remembered Courfeyrac had mentioned Enjolras took lessons as a kid, which probably helped, if only a little. He seriously doubted Enjolras had actually _used_ any of the dances since his last lesson.

Enjolras, who was usually so graceful was moving a little stiffly. He was probably focusing on acquainting himself with the steps. Grantaire secretly couldn’t wait until Enjolras mastered the steps, and his unbridled passion would be able to fuel his movements.

But at the moment, he was too rigid.

“Relax,” Grantaire said. “It’s a dance, not a military drill. Enjolras, you’re too tense. Here-”

Combeferre stepped aside to allow Grantaire access to the blonde. He reached his hand towards Enjolras, then dropped it hastily. No way. No way was he going to lay a finger on Enjolras. Of course he wouldn’t _do_ anything, but somehow it felt like an abuse of his position as teacher to touch Enjolras, when he was so wildly and pathetically attracted to him. So instead he spun around and placed a hand on Combeferre’s hip.

“Like so,” he said, guiding Combeferre. As they maneuvered across the floor, he looked over his shoulder to address Enjolras. “See? He’s your friend. I assume you like him. Don’t be afraid to let him get close to you.”

He released Combeferre, who went back into Enjolras’s arms. The two friends made eye contact, and a silent communication passed through them. Enjolras glanced at Grantaire, evidently taking his words as a challenge, because in his eyes was that spark Grantaire loved so much. His technique still wasn’t perfect, but it was pretty damn good. And he moved with more confidence, more fluidity. Grantaire could stand there all day and watch Enjolras glide around the dance floor all day. He didn’t know how long he stood there, watching them before Courfeyrac and Marius returned.

“It’s been over two hours,” Courfeyrac said, pointing to the wall clock. He looked between Grantaire and Enjolras with a smile that was a little too knowing. “You must have lost track of time.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire ran a hand through his hair. “Well, first lessons, you know…they need more work.”

Combeferre nodded his agreement, though Grantaire didn’t miss the sly look exchanged between Combeferre and Courfeyrac. Bastards.

“Next week then?” Enjolras said, already moving to gather his things.

“Yeah,” Grantaire echoed. “Next week.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> Sorry my knowledge on dancing is limited; I tried. I really tried. 
> 
> Feedback is always much appreciated.


	3. I can't say the words out loud

 

“This place is amazing,” Musichetta said.

“You haven’t even ordered yet,” Cosette said, though she looked pleased.

Musichetta had made her feelings on the hospital coffee (or ‘poison masquerading as coffee’) perfectly clear. So Cosette insisted they meet for pre-work coffee at a café her father owned, which was only a few blocks from where they worked.

It had been an excellent idea. The Musain Café’s décor was enough to get Musichetta to want to return on a regular basis. It was full of mismatched, comfy furniture, and was painted in warm, cozy colors. And the way it smelled made her think of her childhood.

“Cosette!” came a cheerful voice from behind the counter.

“Hi Bossuet,” Cosette chirped. “Can I have my usual?”

“You hardly come around here anymore,” he said, mock chastising her. “I’m not sure I remember.”

Cosette rolled her eyes. “I just moved into a new apartment. Coming here every morning would add at least another 15 minutes to my commute.”

“Oh the horror,” Bossuet smirked, starting to make a latte.

“After pulling a double shift and dealing with sick children all day, trust me. 15 extra minutes of sleep is very important,” Cosette said darkly.

“I’ll take your word for it, and be glad I don’t have your job,” Bossuet said, handing Cosette her finished order.

“It’s not so bad. I like helping people. And I met Musichetta there.”

Bossuet grinned broadly at Musichetta. “And are you a pediatric nurse too?”

“Med student. Specialty undecided,” she said.

“Let me guess your order,” Bossuet squinted at her, as if he could discern her preferences and tastes with a glance. “Something smooth and dark?”

“No, that’s just how I like my men,” Musichetta said, leaning forwards a little bit, smirking. “But I would love a peppermint latte.”

“Coming right up,” Bossuet said, gulping.

After handing Musichetta coffee (which he made at record speed), Bossuet ran to the back, and emerged with a bag full of pastries.

“Here,” he thrust them at Cosette. “For you both. On the house. We can’t sell them. I messed them up a little bit. They still taste fine, they’re just not pretty enough to put in the display case.”

Cosette raised an eyebrow and glanced sideways at Musichetta. “You have never given me free food before.”

“Yes I have,” Bossuet said, giving Cosette a frantic look that clearly said, ‘be cool’. “All the time.”

“If you say so,” Cosette said, trying, and failing to repress a smirk.

“We’ll be back sometime,” Musichetta said, taking a sip of her coffee.

She and Cosette linked arms as they walked back towards the hospital.

“He likes you,” Cosette said.

“He’s cute,” Musichetta said. “Is he single?”

“I think he has a boyfriend, but they’re in an open relationship,” Cosette said. Bossuet didn’t talk about his love life that much. Their friendship mostly involved swapping stories- Cosette would tell him ridiculous hospital stories, and he would make her laugh with tales of the crazy ways the universe worked against him.

“Hmmm,” Musichetta said thoughtfully.

“’Hmm?’” Cosette echoed. “I thought you and Joly-”

“I thought so too,” Musichetta said. “But it’s not going anywhere. He seems interested, and flirts with me, but any time it seems like it’s getting serious, he freaks out and starts telling me about the latest article he read on treating foot fungus.”

“Oh, Joly,” Cosette said sadly.

“I don’t think he’s looking for anything serious. Or at least, not with me,” Musichetta shrugged. “I like him, but I can take a hint.”

“I still think there’s something there,” Cosette insisted.

Musichetta smiled. “You’re sweet. But if something’s meant to happen, it’ll happen. I’m not going to force anything.”

Cosette sighed. She still thought Musichetta was wrong about Joly, but she didn’t want to press anything. Joly obviously now had some competition. She should probably have a word with him soon.

 

***

“What the fuck do you want?” Eponine spat.

“I love it when you talk sweet to me,” Montparnasse crooned. Eponine hit his shoulder.

“Go away, you asshole.”

“Language!” Gavroche said, trying to push past her. “Hey Montparnasse.”

Eponine stuck her arm out in front of him stubbornly. “Go eat your breakfast, Gavroche.”

“I’ll talk to you later,” Montparnasse told him.

Eponine glared at him. Gavroche eyed Eponine rebelliously, weighing his chances at making a break for it, but Montparnasse nodded at him.

“Listen to your sister.”

Gavroche huffed, but scampered off to the kitchen. Eponine blocked the way into the apartment, forced Montparnasse to take a few steps back as she took a few forward until they were both standing in the hallway. She firmly closed the door behind her.

“You’re welcome,” Montparnasse offered.

That was evidently the wrong thing to say, because Eponine swelled up and looked positively murderous. “I don’t need your help raising my brother. I need you to stay the hell away from us.”

“What brought this on?” Montparnasse asked, quickly wracking his brain. Everything had been fine the last time he saw Eponine. They hadn’t fought (for once). He had taken her and Gavroche to the park, bought them dinner and then they returned to the apartment to watch a movie on Eponine’s crappy TV. It had actually been an incredibly _normal_ evening, and even though Montparnasse would never ever admit it to anyone, he looked forward to those kinds of nights with Eponine.

“The gift you left us?”

“Did you not like it?” Montparnasse was confused. He enjoyed their date night, but really, Eponine’s TV was a piece of shit. So he got a new smart TV from a guy who knew a guy who had just acquired a bunch of them.

“Where did you get it?”

“Why does it matter? I got it for you and Gavroche.”

“And the Wii?” Eponine took a step forward, her voice rising. “And the speakers?”

“Where do you think I got them?” Montparnasse rolled his eyes. The fact that he was a criminal wasn’t exactly news to Eponine- they had met while robbing the same house then got caught when they made out in the basement of said house. Then they met again when he was working a job with her father and she had to come provide last minute backup. And again when she had to bail him and her father out of jail.

Eponine closed her eyes, like it was taking all of her patience not to beat the shit out of him. “I told you, I’m done with that life.”

“Why do you care?” Montparnasse said, starting to feel irritated. It hadn’t been exactly easy to get the TV or Wii, and he had expected at least some gratitude. “It’s not like you give a shit about following the law.”

“No, but I give a shit about Gavroche,” Eponine snapped. “I give a shit about how hard it was for me to get guardianship over him. What do you think would happen if anyone found out I had stolen goods in my apartment?”

“But you deserve better than this,” Montparnasse gestured to Eponine’s apartment, which was a tiny box in a bad part of town.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” she growled. “I worked hard for what I have. Is it shit? Absolutely. But it’s mine, and I don’t have to worry about getting arrested or people taking it away from me.”

“Eponine-”

“I think you should stay away from us,” Eponine said firmly. “I don’t want to see you hanging around here anymore. And if I find out you’ve contacted Gavroche, I’ll break your pretty face.”

She turned around and opened the door.

“Eponine.”

She didn’t spare him another glance as she slammed the door shut.

 

***

“Feuilly said he’d have a final Christmas list ready,” Courfeyrac said, ushering Enjolras in through the door.

“That doesn’t explain why he couldn’t email it to us,” Enjolras said. He wasn’t actually upset about it, but he thought every once in a while he should make a show out of complaining when Courfeyrac dragged him out on random excursions, lest he make a habit out of it.

“Don’t pretend you’re not thrilled to see your social justice crush again.”

“I don’t have a _crush_.”

“And anyway,” Courfeyrac continued smoothly. “I think it would do you some good to actually _see_ the people you’re helping.”

Enjolras couldn’t really argue with that. He had the best intentions, but sometimes he had a tendency to view only the big picture and forgot about the individuals that made up his causes.

“Wait here,” Courfeyrac pointed at a bunch outside Feuilly’s office.

“I’m not even allowed to go in?” Enjolras said, feeling slightly offended.

“Calm down. You’ll get to see Feuilly before we leave. I’m just going to get the business stuff out of the way,” Courfeyrac said, shutting the door behind him.

Enjolras sank down on the bench, feeling like a troublemaker waiting to speak to the principal (a position he was well acquainted with). He wondered how long it would take- the “few minutes” Courfeyrac had assured him it would take could easily turn into half an hour.

He did his best to refrain from tapping his feet. Patience was not one of Enjolras’s virtues. Just when he was about to get up and knock on the door to see if Courfeyrac was done yet, there was a loud crash from around the corner. Enjolras jumped to his feet and raced towards the noise source. Someone was half-sprawled across the floor, cursing under their breath. Papers and art supplies were scattered everywhere. The person scrambled around, trying to stop as many colored pencils and markers from rolling away as possible.

Enjolras dropped to the ground, and scooped up the loose sheets, gathering them into a neat pile. The other man seemed to have gathered the rest of the art supplies, so Enjolras shuffled forward, and tried to return the papers. The other man finally turned his body towards Enjolras, as he stuffed the last of the markers into a shopping bag. It was Grantaire.

“Thanks,” he muttered, reaching out to accept the papers. When he looked up and saw it was Enjolras holding them out, his mouth dropped open comically.

“Do you work here?” Enjolras asked, standing up and holding a hand to Grantaire who was still kneeling on the floor. He realized he knew next to nothing about him.

Grantaire sprang to his feet, avoiding the offered hand. He shook his head. “No, I just volunteer here sometimes. I help teach the kids art. Feuilly usually does that, but sometimes he gets swamped, or he asks me to teach them some techniques he doesn’t know yet. Which, there aren’t a lot of. He’s kind of brilliant.”

He was babbling. That was new. He either argued with Enjolras or stared at him in a way that made Enjolras think he had something stuck between his teeth. Now apparently he was adding babbling to his repertoire. They never had the light banter Grantaire seemed to exchange with everyone else. Enjolras wondered what he had done to make Grantaire so uncomfortable around him.

“I’m sure you’re brilliant too,” Enjolras said, smiling at him. That apparently had been the wrong thing to say, because now Grantaire’s eyes were practically popping out of his head. “I mean, you’re a good dance teacher, so I assume you’d be a good art teacher too.”

He really needed to stop talking, because Grantaire looked practically ill. But before Enjolras could make an awkward excuse and leave, Grantaire laughed.

“I think your logic is faulty there. Being good at one has no bearing on how good I am at the other. In fact, it probably means I’d be worse, if anything, since my attention is divided between two hobbies.”

And there it was. They were back on familiar ground. Arguing.

“I assumed you apply the same work ethic for one talent as you do the other,” Enjolras replied.

“Well there’s your problem. You assume I have both talent and a work ethic.”

Enjolras could never tell if Grantaire’s self-deprecation was serious or not. He was spared the trouble of figuring it out though, because the dark haired man continued rattling on.

“What about you, blondie? What are you doing here? Recruiting children to join your revolutionary army?”

It took Enjolras a moment to understand that Grantaire was joking…teasing? Apparently Grantaire was full of surprises today.

“Courfeyrac had to talk to Feuilly about a few things,” Enjolras said.

“And he left you out here all alone?”

“I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself for five minutes.”

“Are you? Because here you are, talking to a stranger.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “You’re not a stranger. You’re just…strange.”  
But perhaps “stranger” wasn’t a completely inaccurate term. Until a week ago, Enjolras had no idea Grantaire danced. He was also apparently an artist and volunteered. He really didn’t know anything about him other than he was cynical, liked to argue with people (but Enjolras especially), and seemed to drink more than was good for him.

“I do what I can,” Grantaire bowed sarcastically.

“I didn’t say being strange was a bad thing,” Enjolras said, starting to feel annoyed at Grantaire’s mocking tone. “You’ve met Courfeyrac, and I’ve been friends with him for years. Willingly, too.”

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said about me,” Courfeyrac’s voice said, coming around the corner, followed closely by the man himself. “I’ll remind you of it sometime.”

“You have no proof.”

“I have a witness,” Courfeyrac gestured towards Grantaire.

“Grantaire would never betray me.” Actually, Enjolras had no idea if that were true or not. He wasn’t even sure Grantaire liked him very much as a person. “Right?”

He expected Grantaire to make some snide comment and say something mocking either about his hair or his ideals, but instead he found Grantaire looking at him with unexpected intensity.

“Never,” he said seriously.

Enjolras swallowed, waiting for the punch line. Grantaire turned slightly pink.

“Anyway, now you have your Courfeyrac to entertain you, so I’m going to…I have a class to teach.”

“Do you need helping carrying that?” Enjolras frowned, looking at the art supplies overflowing from Grantaire’s arms. It seemed highly likely he would drop them again.

“No, I’m good. Go save the world, or whatever you two do in your free time,” Grantaire called over his shoulder.

Enjolras frowned. “I don’t understand him,” he said to Courfeyrac once Grantaire was gone.

“I’m still working him out myself,” Courfeyrac said lightly. “Come on. We have things to do.”

“Things. Plural? You said we were getting Thai food.”

“We will, eventually,” Courfeyrac waved the stack of papers in his hand in Enjolras’s face. “Anyway, getting the kids’ wish lists was more important.”

“This looks doable enough,” Enjolras said, taking the first sheet and glancing down it.

Courfeyrac peeked over his shoulder. The lists were alphabetical by child’s name. He frowned, then riffled through the other sheets of paper.

“Something wrong?” Enjolras asked.

“Not really. I just met this kid here the other day, and it doesn’t look like he’s on the list,” Courfeyrac said. “You don’t have a Gavroche on yours, do you?”

Enjolras double checked his paper. “No.”

“Hmm,” Courfeyrac put on his thoughtful face.

“Maybe Feuilly made a mistake,” Enjolras said.

“What? You mean…you don’t think Feuilly is absolutely flawless?” Courfeyrac said, bumping his shoulder into Enjolras’s.

“Why am I friends with you again?”

“Because you love me.” Courfeyrac sighed when he looked at his papers. “I’ll double check with Feuilly later.”

 

***

Marius was surprised to see Eponine standing in the doorway of his and Courfeyrac’s apartment, holding up a bottle of wine.

“Am I interrupting?” she asked, pushing past him and heading straight to the couch.

“Not at all,” Marius said, grabbing two glasses before joining her.

She took one look at the glasses, scoffed, and took a huge gulp straight from the bottle, before shoving it at Marius. He took a tentative sip.

“Is something the matter?” he asked timidly.

“Men,” Eponine said darkly.

“Oh,” Marius said, wondering why on earth Eponine had come to him.

He wasn’t sure exactly how they became friends. He had met Eponine when they were both waiters for a catering company. He had just gotten in his last huge fight with his grandfather, and moved out. He had been completely broke, and somehow, miraculously managed to land that job. Eponine had just started too, and had frankly terrified him. She wasn’t soft or at all gentle, and even though they were at the same rank, she would bark orders at him. About six months ago, Courfeyrac helped get him his job translating manuscripts for various professors.

A few days after he quit the catering job, Eponine had showed up on his doorstep. He didn’t remember ever telling her where he lived, but somehow he wasn’t surprised she knew. He _was_ surprised she wanted to spend time with him, now that they no longer had to work together.

“You’re better than the rest of those assholes,” was all she had said with a shrug before inviting herself in. (Later, Marius decided that was her way of saying she missed him).

Now it was a semi-regular occurrence. Eponine always seemed to time her visits when Marius was at the apartment by himself. Not that it was difficult, considering Courfeyrac was always out and about. Still, he couldn’t recall the two of them ever coming face to face.

He shrugged it off, because there were more important things to worry about. More important things being Eponine glaring angrily at his TV like she wanted to smash it.

“What is it with men and having nice TVs?” she practically spat.

“Um…we like watching things?” Marius had no idea the response he was supposed to give.

Eponine took another swig from the bottle. “Well I like watching things on my shitty TV. It has _character_. Not everything has to be a stupid fancy smart TV. ”

“How can it be stupid and smart?” Marius asked. Eponine glared at him. “Sorry.”

He reached out and patted her shoulder. She took this as an invitation to scoot closer, and curl up against his side.

“You shouldn’t be sorry. You’re not the asshole.”

“Then who is?” Marius never understood what Eponine was talking about. She had a habit of going on long, winding rants he couldn’t follow, before mellowing out and thanking him for his help, even though he didn’t really do anything.

“It doesn’t matter. I’m done with him. What about you?” she tilted her head back so she could see his face. “How’s your love life going?”

Marius sighed, giving up on trying to figure out why Eponine had been upset in the first place. “I met someone, but I lost her.”

“What did you do?” Eponine asked eagerly. Marius tilted his head at her tone. She didn’t have to sound so pleased about it. “No, I meant, I’m just curious how Marius Pontmercy fucks up a relationship so quickly.”

“There wasn’t a relationship,” Marius said. “I don’t even know her name.”

Eponine raised her eyebrows at him. He quickly launched into the same story he had told his friends a hundred times: how he had been knocked over at the rally, and would have been trampled, had it not been for the beautiful angel who helped him up. And in those few seconds, after hearing her sweet voice, and looking at her sparkling eyes, he knew that this girl was unlike every other girl he had met in his entire life.

“But then things got crazy, and we got separated, and I couldn’t find her again. I think I got a bit of a concussion, actually. And Enjolras got me a list of all the emergency workers who were scheduled to be there, but I haven’t had any luck finding her.”

“Why emergency workers?” Eponine asked.

“She was near the first aid tent. And she had on scrubs. I think there were cats on them.”

“Makes sense,” Eponine said thoughtfully.

“And she had brown curly hair, and her eyes…did I mention her eyes?”

“I believe they ‘shone as brightly as the moon in the night sky,’” Eponine said, rolling her own eyes.

Marius nodded.

“So what I’m getting from this is you’ve been obsessing over a girl you met for two seconds.”

“It sounds weird if you put it like that,” Marius said, turning pink.

“It is weird,” Eponine assured him. “But I can’t judge. I was dating a criminal.”

“….you were what?”

 

***

Jehan had been nervous when he first entered the Musain. He shouldn’t have been; they had held band practice here many times. The café had a small stage in the back that hosted poetry readings and local musicians on certain nights. Valjean, the Musain’s owner let them practice there after the Musain was closed, or on nights when no one was booked. Bossuet (their drummer) was a barista at the Musain, and Valjean trusted him.

But this wasn’t just a regular practice. Courfeyrac, Bossuet’s friend who was potentially getting them a gig would be there to listen to them before officially booking them. Then Bossuet had texted Jehan five minutes before he arrived to let him know Courfeyrac was bringing two friends with him.

Jehan never got stage fright- or if he did, he quickly converted it into fuel for his performances. But he had been in a bit of an artistic rut recently, and he was afraid his lack of inspiration would show and ruin their chances. He didn’t want that on his shoulders. He needn’t have worried; when he came in, he was greeted enthusiastically by Courfeyrac, who was already there with a friend Jehan didn’t know yet.

“Jehan!” Courfeyrac cried, hugging him.

Jehan hadn’t realized they were at the level of friendship where they were greeting each other with hugs, but he didn’t mind in the slightest. Jehan was usually the person who got too attached to other people first, so it was nice to have someone else take the first step for once.

“This is Jehan,” Courfeyrac said, presenting Jehan to his friend with a flourish.  “And this grumpy-face is Enjolras.”

“You kidnapped me six hours ago from my apartment because you said you heard about an ‘amazing’ Thai food place. We went to see Feuilly, then went to the bookstore, then the street festival, and now we’re here.”

“And _then_ we’ll get Thai,” Courfeyrac said.

Enjolras rolled his eyes, looking more fond than exasperated. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Jehan,” he said. “Do you like Thai food? Apparently we’re going to an amazing place after this.”

Satisfied they would get along, Courfeyrac scurried off to talk to Bahorel and Bossuet, who judging by the accompanying hand gestures, were telling some inappropriate story.

“Bossuet mentioned that Courfeyrac is pretty into politics,” Jehan said, wracking his brain for a good conversation starter. “You as well?”

It was apparently a good choice. Enjolras’s face lit up, and he launched into an animated talk about an article he had read that morning, pausing to ask Jehan his opinions, and listening carefully to his answers. Within the first five minutes of talking to Enjolras, Jehan already knew if they lived in bygone era, he would follow Enjolras into battle, no questions asked.

Enjolras’s vibrant rhetoric attracted Bahorel and Bossuet over. Even Courfeyrac, who was probably used to his impassioned way of speaking joined them. It quickly turned into a debate. Courfeyrac, who had always seemed incredibly easy-going turned out to be a bit of a firecracker when trying to make a point, almost going as far as to almost smash Enjolras’s phone, which had an article on it he vehemently disagreed with.

It was then that Jehan noticed _him_. The tall, lanky man who had just walked through the door. He took off his scarf and spotted their group. A warm smile spread across his face.

“Combeferre!” Courfeyrac barreled past Jehan and seized the man’s arm, dragging him to the back. “Finally. Busy saving lives, I assume?”

“Something much more thrilling,” Combeferre said dryly. “Paperwork.”

Bossuet accosted him next- it seemed Combeferre worked with his kind of boyfriend, so they were somewhat acquainted. Jehan hovered nearby, hanging on the man’s – Combeferre’s, he corrected himself- every word. His voice was gentle, not in a way that suggested timidity, but rather kindness. He alternated between brilliant philosophy and dry sarcasm in his words. Jehan could listen to him talk all day, but Courfeyrac seemed to remember why they were all gathered there and hastily introduced Jehan and Bahorel before ushering Combeferre and Enjolras to a small table situated in front of the stage.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Courfeyrac said.

Jehan hopped on the stage, and picked up his guitar. Bossuet got behind the drum set, and Bahorel took center stage. They lucked out with Bahorel as a front man. He had a strong voice, with just a hint of roughness to it, and was a good guitarist to boot. But he also had stage presence, that undefinable ‘it’ factor. Maybe it was his good looks, the fact that he knew how to dress well, or his confidence. Jehan thought it was probably a combination of all three.

The point was, when Bahorel stepped behind a microphone and got ready to perform, he was in his element, and all eyes were on him. Except for now. Jehan felt someone watching _him_ , which almost never happened. He looked up from his guitar and saw Combeferre looking at him carefully. When he caught Jehan’s eye, he gave him a quick, reassuring smile, before looking down at his notepad, where he had been scribbling something.

Jehan was a man who trusted his gut. And just as he knew Enjolras, with his charm, passion and conviction was a man he could die for, he understood in that instant that Combeferre, with his intelligence, wit and smiles, was a man he could live for.

He turned his attention back to his fingers and the strings, and let the music wash over him. It was why he played- he loved getting swept up in the music and really _feeling_ whatever he was playing. It made him feel alive.

They finished their first song, and were rewarded with enthusiastic claps from their audience.

“I think they’re perfect,” Courfeyrac said.

Enjolras and Combeferre nodded.

“Can you email us a list of your songs, and any covers you can do?” Combeferre asked.

Bahorel hopped off the stage, to exchange contact information with them. After email addresses and phone numbers traded, the band started to pack up their equipment.

 “You know,” Bahorel said, coiling an extension cord. “If you wanted some variety, or to have more than one band, my girlfriend’s band is pretty good.”

“Bahorel, _no_ ,” Bossuet said.

“Come on. We’re not afraid of some competition,” Bahorel said. He turned to Courfeyrac. “They’re called the Laughing Mistresses.”

“Their songs include ‘It’s called a clit, need a map?’ and ‘Congrats on coming first again you selfish bastard’,’” Bossuet added.

“Both written before we started dating,” Bahorel said quickly.

Enjolras was suddenly looking _very_ interested in booking the Laughing Mistresses for the ball. Courfeyrac cleared his throat nervously.

“I’m not sure the guests are their target audience,” he said genially. “But we’ll keep them in mind, if we get more money for the music budget.”

Combeferre nudged Enjolras. “ _No_.”

“But –”

“The more uncomfortable you make the guests, the less money they’ll donate,” Combeferre said.

Enjolras sighed, but said nothing else. Courfeyrac sidled up behind him and stuck his chin on Enjolras’s shoulder.

“Ready for Thai?”

“Am _I_ ready?”

“Well you’ve been dragging me around the city for the past six hours on errand after errand,” Courfeyrac said. “It’s about time we got food.”

Combeferre caught Jehan’s eye, and quirked his eyebrow as if to say “Aren’t our friends ridiculous?” And Jehan found he liked the idea of the two of them sharing a private joke very much.

“Jehan, are you coming?” Enjolras asked.

“You should!” Courfeyrac said eagerly. He cast a dark look at Bahorel and Bossuet. “ _Those_ two have dates so they can’t come.”

Jehan’s eyes wandered to Combeferre, who gave him a small, but encouraging smile. He wanted to capture that smile in words. He wanted to immortalize the poetry of Combeferre’s lips and dedicate pages to his expressive eyes.

“Maybe some other time,” he said. He had songs to write.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thanksgiving everyone. Thanks for reading! Feedback of any kind is always appreciated. Sorry it took longer than I estimated to get this chapter up. I'm moving to a new city soon, so there's been a lot of things like packing and other boring moving stuff that I won't bore you with. But hopefully once I finish packing/getting settled, I can write more often. 
> 
> Bahorel's girlfriend's band was inspired by a Tumblr post I read but cannot find again about forming a feminist punk band. If anyone knows the one I'm talking about, please let me know so I can link it. 
> 
> Chapter title is from Bastille's 'Poet'. I thought it was fitting.


	4. It Plagues Your Mind Every Day that Passes

Because of his tardiness the week before, and the week after that to dance lessons, Courfeyrac offered to take Marius with him, so he didn’t get lost yet again. Marius had been all set to meet Courfeyrac after his classes, but Courfeyrac instead texted and said they were going to give Combeferre puppy-eyes and beg for a ride, because he really didn’t feel like taking the metro, and Combeferre had a car he used when he had to work weird hours. Marius dutifully arrived at the hospital, miraculously managing to be on time, only to get a text from Courfeyrac saying he would be a few minutes late.

“Marius?” Combeferre looked surprised to see him. “What are you doing here? You’re not sick, are you?

“Courfeyrac said we were going to ask you for a ride to lessons.”

Combeferre rolled his eyes, but thankfully, it was aimed at the absent Courfeyrac, not at Marius, who made a point not to spend much one on one time with Combeferre, because the man was intimidating.

“Have a seat in here,” Combeferre said, gesturing to an empty break room. “I have to wrap up a few things, but I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

So it looked like Marius might end up late anyway. But Marius reasoned Enjolras wouldn’t be annoyed if he was late as long as he was with Combeferre, because ‘giving medical attention’ was a more valid excuse than ‘got lost for a third time’.

Just when Marius thought they were ready to go, Combeferre poked his head in the room. “I’ll be back in ten minutes. Just wait here, okay?”

Marius nodded, and settled back in the chair. He wished he had brought some of his translation work with him – he was terribly behind on it. He kept meaning to sit down and make a dent in the work, but his brain had other ideas. He took to long, rambling walks. Sometimes he spent so long daydreaming about the mystery girl he met that when Courfeyrac snapped him out of it, hours had gone by, and he hadn’t even realized.

“Marius?”

His head shot up, and he saw his cousin, Theo standing in the doorway.

“Hi Theo,” Marius mumbled. He didn’t know his cousin well. Theo’s visits to the Gillenormand house were few and far between, and their personalities didn’t exactly complement each other. Theo had always been handsome, popular, outgoing, and the star of everything he tried, whether it be sports or classes, or school plays. Marius had always been the quiet, shy and awkward withdrawn kid who sat in the back and read books to himself. Theo was never cruel to his cousin, but he never went out of his way to be nice to him either.

“What are you doing here? You’re not thinking of taking up med school are you?” Theo said, looking amused at the notion.

“I’m waiting for my friend, Combeferre. He’s supposed to drive me and my roommate to lessons.”

“What kind of lessons?”

“Lessons we’re taking for a charity auction.” Marius really didn’t to tell Theo he was taking dance classes, because he would probably laugh at him.

Theo looked amused anyway. “The one Aunt Marie is doing?”

“Yes. Are you doing it too?”

“I might,” Theo said, shrugging. “Aunt Marie’s already asked a few times. I suppose I could- for charity.”

Theo had done this before whenever their aunt asked for help with anything. He would pretend to deliberate, then agree at the last minute, which always doubled Aunt Marie’s gratitude for him ‘saving the day’.

“I guess I’ll see you there,” Marius said, wanting to stop the conversation as soon as possible- talking to Theo only made him think of his family, and how Theo was everything they thought a young man should be, and how Marius was always a disappointment to them.

Theo nodded. “See you then.”

He left, only to be swiftly replaced by Courfeyrac, who came bounding in the room. He took one look at Marius’s glum face, before grabbing both of Marius’s hands, and hauling him to his feet, and spinning him around the room. Only once he had coaxed a smile out of him did Courfeyrac stop and sling an arm around his shoulder. He wouldn’t ask what was wrong- he never did, because he knew Marius would come to him when he was ready.

“Now where is that doctor of ours?” Courfeyrac said, peering around the hallway.

“Gum man!” shouted a little boy walking down the hallway. “Look how gross my arm is!”

“Hey Gavroche,” Courfeyrac said easily, waving at the boy, who was proudly showing off his bloody, limp arm.

“Marius?”

“Eponine?” Marius said, squinting at Eponine who was jogging to catch up to Gavroche.

“Courfeyrac!” Courfeyrac finished helpfully.

The four of them stared at each other, trying to figure out who knew each other and how. Eponine scrutinized Courfeyrac.

“You were at the center the other day,” she said finally.

“Courfeyrac,” he said again, winking and looking like he instantly regretted it after the look she gave him in response.

“He’s my roommate,” Marius said.

“Oh,” Eponine seemed to relax a little. “I ate your ice cream last week.”

Her words seemed designed to be a challenge to Courfeyrac, who just shrugged. “I’m just pleased Marius can be friends with a girl. Maybe soon he’ll be able actually to ask one out.”

“Oh,” Eponine’s eyes widened. “I think I just found….”

She trailed off and bit her lip.

“Found who?” Marius asked. Eponine hesitated for another second.

“Your friend, Combeferre. You said he’s an intern at a hospital, right? He just looked at Gavroche’s arm.”

“So he’s still busy then,” Courfeyrac said, glancing at his watch.

Marius smiled at Eponine. “Thanks for telling me. You’re a good friend.”

“Uh-huh,” she said, avoiding looking at his face. “Well, we have to go. Gav’s arm.”

She turned away, and strode down the hall. Gavroche turned to follow her, but Courfeyrac called to him.

“Wait a second,” he said. “I’m supposed to deliver the Christmas wish list from the center to Santa later, and I noticed you didn’t ask for anything.”

Gavroche rolled his eyes. “You mean you’re buying the presents for Feuilly?”

“No. I’m sending the list to the North Pole.”

“I know Santa isn’t real.”

“That’s ridiculous. Who told you that?” Courfeyrac said.

“Santa is impossible.”

“Nonsense. He’s a Christmas miracle. Seriously, what do you want for Christmas?”

Gavroche responded by rolling his eyes again. “I’m too old to believe in Santa or miracles. I don’t need anything. Ep will take care of me. I’ll see you later. I’m going to get my cast!”

He waved cheerfully, and trotted after his sister. Courfeyrac frowned, looking troubled.

“Should we try to find Combeferre?” Marius asked gently.

Courfeyrac nodded. The sadness that was on his face a second ago was replaced with the determined expression he wore when he started planning a rally or a protest. “Yeah. Sure. Let’s find Combeferre.”

 

***

“Explain to me again what happened?” Cosette asked, as she led the small boy (Gavroche Thenardier, according to his chart) to the exam room.

“Stuff,” he said unhelpfully.

“Well next time you do _stuff_ , be more careful,” Cosette sighed.

“Will I get a cast?” Gavroche asked eagerly.

“Maybe,” Cosette said. “I want one of the doctors to come here and see if we should send you to orthopedics or not.”

Gavroche looked entirely too excited at the prospect of a cast. The woman with him glared.

“You were climbing things at school again.”

“No I wasn’t.”

“At the community center?”

“No.”

“Around the city then.”

“No,” he said again, but this time there was enough of a pause that the woman glared at him.

“I told you to stop climbing stuff or you’d fall and break your neck.”

“I didn’t break my neck. I broke my arm,” Gavroche said in a sing-song voice. At the woman’s expression, he balked. “Sorry, Eponine. Next time I’ll be more careful.”

“There isn’t going to _be_ a next time,” Eponine snarled.

Gavroche didn’t agree with her, but instead started humming some tune to himself under his breath. Eponine sighed, looking exhausted.

“Will the doctor be much longer?” she asked Cosette tartly.

“Let me check.”

Cosette hurried out in the hallway. They were completely swamped - the staff was already stretched thin. It was flu season, it was close to the holidays, which for some reason brought out carelessness in people, causing a ridiculous assortment of injuries, not to mention people wanted to start taking time off to travel. Cosette knew for a fact that the doctor would be a lot longer, but maybe she could find someone else. She felt sorry for Eponine, who seemed far too young to be responsible for an eleven year old boy.

To her relief, she spotted Combeferre right in front of the break room.

“Oh thank God,” she said. “Are you still on duty?”

“I was just about to check out,” he said, glancing at his watch. Cosette remembered with a twinge of guilt he mentioned he had to meet with his friends for some kind of class after work. “But I can make time for you.”

“It won’t take long,” Cosette promised. “There’s a kid who has what I’m pretty sure is a broken arm, but I need a doctor or someone training to be one to sign off on the form so I can send him to orthopedics.”

Combeferre nodded. He leaned his head in the break room. “I’ll be back in ten minutes. Just wait here, okay?”

Without waiting for a response, Combeferre followed Cosette. He walked quickly, without seeming rushed. He had a naturally calming presence. Cosette felt like she could breathe again. Combeferre would take care of everything, and hopefully Eponine wouldn’t yell at her, because that would be the sixth angry guardian to yell at her that day alone.

“Good evening,” Combeferre said, striding in the room. “I’m Combeferre. Sorry for the wait. Cosette told me you had an arm that needs looking at.”

Gavroche held up his bloody, limp arm, looking proud. “Look how gross it is.”

“It’s pretty disgusting,” Combeferre agreed genially. “How’s the pain? On a scale of 1 to 10?”

The boy shrugged. “I’ve had worse.”

“So there is pain?” Combeferre clarified.

“A bit,” Gavroche said disdainfully, although he winced when Combeferre gently picked his arm up to get a closer look.

“You’re pretty tough,” Combeferre said. “You know, I was at a protest a few weeks ago, and I saw guys twice your size get scrapes that weren’t nearly as bad as this, and they couldn’t stop complaining. So it’s okay for you to let me know if it hurts a lot, okay?”

Gavroche bit his lip, clearly debating if he wanted to admit to how much pain he was in.

“Cosette was there too,” Combeferre said. “She can tell you.”

“He’s right. I saw big, tough guys get tiny bumps and they asked me for the strongest pain killers I had. They wouldn’t be able to handle this at all.”

“It’s probably an 8,” Gavroche said finally.

Combeferre nodded, and made a note on the chart.

“Nice scrubs,” Eponine said.

Cosette looked down at her cat scrubs. She was particularly fond of them, but she wasn’t sure if Eponine was sincere or making fun of her. “Thank you.”

“You were really at that rally?” Eponine asked.

Cosette nodded, not sure why Eponine was suddenly staring at her like she was the most interesting thing in the room. She would have preferred Eponine being dismissive towards her again, because her gaze was intense, and it didn’t feel like a good thing.

“I’m going to refer you to another department, so they can do an X-ray,” Combeferre said, signing off on one of Gavroche’s forms.

Gavroche hopped off the exam table, looking positively gleeful. “I’m going to get a cast, aren’t I?”

“It seems a distinct possibility,” Combeferre said, smiling slightly.

Eponine followed the ecstatic Gavroche out into the hallway. She paused, looked directly at Cosette and said bitterly, “Your eyes really do shine as brightly as the moon in the night sky.”

“Um, thank you?” Cosette said, entirely confused. At least Eponine wasn’t snarling at her anymore.

Eponine didn’t bother responding as she pushed past Cosette. Combeferre shrugged when Cosette looked quizzically at him.

“Is there anything else?” Combeferre asked.

“I can help her.”

Combeferre and Cosette both turned to see another med student, Theo Gillenormand stroll in the exam room.

“Combeferre, I didn’t know you knew my cousin,” Theo said.

“Your cousin?”

“Marius. I saw him in the break room. He wanted to know if you would be much longer.”

Combeferre looked at Cosette, and she waved at him. “Go. Don’t keep your friend waiting.”

“Thank you,” Combeferre said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Of course. Now _go_. You totally saved me just now. Go dance with your friends.”

Theo looked amused. “Dancing?”

“I think he said they have dance lessons before some event or another,” Cosette said. To be honest, Combeferre was involved in so many things outside of his studies and internship that it got hard to keep track of them all.

“I could see Combeferre being good at it,” Theo said. “But _Marius_.”

“Your cousin?”

Theo nodded. “He’s a nice kid, but odd. He’s a little awkward.”

The same could certainly not be said about Theo, who seemed to spend almost as much time fending off the advances of hospital staff and patients alike as he did actually studying or doing medical work.

“Oh,” Cosette said noncommittally. It wasn’t as if she knew this Marius, or was likely to ever meet him, so she didn’t really have an opinion.

“Well, Nurse Fauchelevent, is there anything you need help with? I assure you, you’re in more than capable hands,” Theo said, flashing a smile that Cosette was fairly positive he had given dozens other nurses within the past hour, but her stupid heart still fluttered a little bit.

“I think I’m okay. I’m due for a break soon anyway,” Cosette said.

“Excellent. Then you have time to join me for some coffee,” Theo said. This time when he smiled, Cosette smiled back.

“Alright. One quick cup.”  

 

***

“Afternoon,” Musichetta said, sliding into the stool in front of the counter that had quickly become ‘her’ spot. It had only been a week since Cosette had introduced her to the Musain, but she had come back nearly every day- partially for the coffee, and partially for Bossuet’s company. The feeling was most likely mutual, since a few days ago, Musichetta had seen Bossuet try to subtly shoo someone out of her seat when she came in earlier.

“What can I get for you today?” Bossuet said.

Musichetta pursed her lips and looked at the menu. So far, she had ordered something new off the menu every time.

“I’ll try….” she paused for dramatic effect. “The gingerbread latte.”

“Coming right up.”

Musichetta settled into her seat. She was glad she managed to come during a less busy time for the café, because she fully intended to monopolize Bossuet’s attention as soon as he got back. Until he did, she amused herself by observing the couple sitting by the window and making up their backstories. There was a beautiful blonde man, seated so the sunbeams illuminated him, talking and gesturing powerfully with his hands. Seated across from in the shadow was a man with unruly black curls, watching the blonde with a look of thinly concealed adoration.

She wondered if they were dating. The curly-headed one was obviously infatuated with the blonde. The blonde was looking at him with exasperation, but if she examined him more closely, she could see a fond smile threaten to break out from under his stern expression. They must have known each other for a while, Musichetta decided. And since she was in a good mood, she imagined they _were_ dating, and this must be their regular coffee shop. Maybe this was where they met. She had just dubbed them, “Coffee Boyfriends” in her head when Bossuet placed her own steaming beverage in front of her.

“Here you go,” he said.

Musichetta handed over a few bills, taking care that their hands brushed together as she did so. Bossuet shivered at the contact. And that was when Musichetta decided she had had enough. She snapped her hand back.

“Okay, I’m going to ask you some questions, and you’re going to answer me honestly.”

Bossuet gulped. “O-kay.”

“Do you like me?”

“Yes,” Bossuet said right away.

“Are you attracted to me?”

“Yes,” Bossuet said again.

“Then would you like to go out with me on a date?”

This time Bossuet took time to answer. “I’m….seeing somebody.”

“Oh.” Musichetta frowned. “I’m sorry. Cosette mentioned you had a boyfriend, but I was under the impression it was an open relationship.”

“It is,” Bossuet ran his hand against the back of his head and chuckled nervously. “It’s just…I’ve never taken advantage of the openness of our relationship. I only really agreed to it because he was so insistent, and I really like him.”

Musichetta couldn’t imagine what kind of idiot wouldn’t want to commit to Bossuet if they had the chance to.

“I never really thought I’d have the chance to date two amazing people, you know?” Bossuet continued. “That’s not really how my life works.”

“Is that a no to the date?” Musichetta asked bluntly. She liked Bossuet, she really did. But she was tired of having men she liked skirt around issues, and she was determined to get a straight answer out of Bossuet, not matter what that answer might be.

“Can I talk to my boyfriend?” Bossuet said. “I want to make sure he’s still okay with the open relationship thing.”

Musichetta couldn’t fathom why his boyfriend _wouldn’t_ be okay with it, since he had apparently suggested it, but she wasn’t going to do anything that would make Bossuet uncomfortable either. “Of course. Let me know,” she scribbled her number down on a napkin, then hopped off her stool.

“I’ll see you?” Bossuet said hopefully.

Musichetta nodded. “Of course. Your coffee is too good for me to stay away for too long.”

Bossuet’s grin was the last thing she saw before she turned around to head back to the hospital.

 

***

Enjolras only meant to stay at the Musain for five or ten minutes. He was going to pick up some of Bossuet’s music, chat politely with Bossuet, because he felt like they were starting to become friends, and chatting was something almost-friends did, and then leave. He had a mountain of coursework to plough through before Combeferre and Courfeyrac were coming over for dinner and a movie (and inevitably debates about current events). They made a point at least once a week to get together, just the three of them and casually hang out, because their lives were all so chaotic that if they didn’t schedule it, the three of them would only see each other once or twice a semester. And while Enjolras valued one on one time with either Combeferre or Courfeyrac, they really were at their best when it was the three of them together.  

He got the USB drive from Bossuet, and they engaged in small talk. He was about to leave, when he heard a familiar drawl behind him.

“Your handlers let you out of the apartment by yourself?”

Enjolras turned around, and saw Grantaire seated in a table by the window. Bossuet nodded at Grantaire, and disappeared behind the counter to get his drink. Enjolras used to think Grantaire had a regular order, but apparently, he and Bossuet had an agreement that Bossuet would surprise Grantaire with an order every time he came in. The results apparently were sometimes very good, and sometimes bordered on health-code violations.

Grantaire raised his eyebrows, like he was waiting for an answer. Enjolras took a few steps over, unwilling to commit to the conversation enough to take a seat. He shouldn’t have been surprised Grantaire was there- Grantaire was always there. But he was surprised Grantaire was making small talk with him, when he could have pretended to ignore him. Grantaire had never liked him much. It was mostly Enjolras’s fault, because he was never one to tone down his opinions to get people to like him.

“Courfeyrac is not my handler.”

“Where’s Combeferre?”

Enjolras shrugged.

“You two aren’t surgically attached at the hip?” Grantaire said, feigning shock.

“How are you, Grantaire?” Enjolras said firmly refusing to be drawn in by Grantaire’s teasing, which either left him flustered or frustrated.

“Same old, same old,” Grantaire said casually.

Bossuet appeared, carrying two mugs. One with some bizarre cinnamon smelling coffee, and the other with Enjolas’s usual order. He set them down on the table. Enjolras was about to protest that he hadn’t actually ordered anything, but Bossuet said, “On the house. Consider it incentive for you two to keep using your indoor voices.”

So Enjolras sat down, as it would probably be rude to reject the drink.

“We’ve been spending a lot of time together under the supervision of his babysitters-”

“Combeferre and Courfeyrac are _not my babysitters_ -”

“-so we’ve had practice getting along,” Grantaire concluded with a cheeky grim.

Enjolras was a little surprised Grantaire used dance lessons as an example of ‘getting along’. He actively avoided Enjolras during lessons, which was quite a feat, considering he only had four pupils. Grantaire had danced with everyone else, either to demonstrate a new step, or to correct their technique, but had never so much as laid a hand on Enjolras. Enjolras didn’t have any trouble learning the moves, so it wasn’t as if he were suffering from it, but Grantaire clearly still had serious issues with him.

Bossuet looked curious, and even opened his mouth to ask what Enjolras assumed was a question, when he spotted something outside the window. His eyes went round, and he mumbled, “Gotta get back to work,” and practically ran back to the counter.

“What?” Enjolras stared at Bossuet, who was back at his station in record time and was now idly wiping the counter casually, like he had been there for ages.

The Musain door swung open, and in came a dark, curly haired woman, who made her way to the counter, smiling at Bossuet, who seemed to melt under her gaze.

Grantaire snorted. “God, Bossuet’s an idiot.”

Enjolras hummed noncommittally in agreement. “How’s work?” he asked.

“You’re asking me about _work_?” Grantaire looked amused.

Enjolras shrugged. It seemed a safe topic of conversation, since talking about what Enjolras did with his time would inevitably lead to a snarky comment from Grantaire, a rebuttal from Enjolras, then a full out argument. Grantaire seemed to guess Enjolras’s motive, because he said, “It’s fine. The restaurant reviewing gig is a little mediocre of late. I think France’s culinary scene in decline. Paris definitely isn’t the culinary capitol of the world any more. Not even in the top 10. You’d have better luck in England.”

And Enjolras _knew_ the only reason Grantaire said that was to piss him off and get a reaction, but he couldn’t help but react exactly how Grantaire wanted him to.

“You take that back right now.”

“Nope.”

The afternoon was a blur of Enjolras passionately defending Parisian food, with Grantaire casually mentioning how frozen food was making more and more appearances in restaurants, or the lack of originality in half the kitchens, not to mention the apathy of the younger generation for France’s culinary legacy.

“I mean, can _you_ cook?” Grantaire asked triumphantly.

Enjolras could barely boil water. “Just because I can’t cook doesn’t mean I don’t care about food.”

Grantaire looked amused. “Keep telling yourself that.”

He could only huff in response. He went to take another sip of his coffee, but found it was empty. He looked around and saw the curly headed woman who had been talking to Bossuet was gone. How long had he been sitting there? Enjolras winced when he glanced at his watch.

“You have to get going?” Grantaire said.

Enjolras nodded. “I’ll see you later?”

Grantaire saluted, warranting an eye roll from Enjolras that was only 10% actual annoyance. Talking to Grantaire this time around had been…nice. Unlike their other arguments, Grantaire hadn’t been attacking Enjolras’s most cherished beliefs. It felt more playful than before. Maybe that meant Grantaire was starting to like him, or at least tolerate him. That thought warmed Enjolras as he stepped outside into the winter Parisian streets.

 

***

Combeferre found himself with a rare free day. He didn’t have a shift at his internship, he had finished his coursework, and he wasn’t volunteering anywhere. Usually when he had free time, he spent it with Enjolras, but Enjolras had gone to the Musain to pick up a USB drive from Bossuet that had some of his band’s original songs on it. Then Enjolras texted him that he had run into Grantaire there, and they were having a cup of coffee.

It didn’t surprise Combeferre that Grantaire was at the Musain (he seemed to have made it almost a second home for himself), but it was unprecedented that Enjolras had sat down with just Grantaire for some coffee. He almost wondered if he shouldn’t swing by to referee the inevitable blow up that was going to happen.

He eventually (after some deliberation) decided against it, because Enjolras and Grantaire were both adults, and he was probably exaggerating how much they fought. And in any case, if Enjolras and Grantaire got into an argument, he was sure to hear about it later that night, so there was no need to interrupt them preemptively.

Instead, he decided to go to a bookstore Courfeyrac had recommended to him. It was a quiet one, tucked away in a lonely corner of Paris; Combeferre was surprised Courfeyrac even knew about it. It wasn’t the sort of place he usually went to. Courfeyrac usually preferred places where there were a lot of people. The quiet atmosphere _was_ perfect for Combeferre, who made a silent note to thank Courfeyrac later for the suggestion.

He didn’t know how long he had been browsing the shelves of books, before he heard the bell on the door chime and he looked up. It had been long enough that he already had an armful of books he was having trouble holding. The precariously balanced books nearly toppled over when he saw who had come in: Jehan.

“Hey,” Combeferre called, raising his voice as loudly as he dared to in the still, silent bookshop.

Jehan’s face lit up when he spotted him. He hurried over. “Hey,” he echoed.

He was wearing a truly awful bright green Christmas jumper, paired with red pants and yellow wellingtons which all clashed horribly with his orange knit hat. On anyone else, the unorthodox clothing combination be awful. But on Jehan, it was somehow charming.

“I didn’t know you come here,” Jehan continued, helping Combeferre with his books.

“Courfeyrac mentioned it,” Combeferre said, trying to ignore how close they suddenly were.

Jehan nodded. “Oh yeah. I told him about it last week. I come here a lot.”

Combeferre wasn’t sure if Courfeyrac planned this or not, but he was still grateful to his friend at that moment.

“Emily Dickinson?” Jehan asked, looking at the top book.

“I’ve been trying to read more poetry, since I don’t know much about it,” Combeferre said. He tried to read anything and everything, but because of his coursework, lately most of his reading had been math/science heavy. “My English has gotten a little rusty, so I thought I could try to kill two birds with one stone.”

Jehan smiled broadly. “It just so happens I love poetry,” he said. “Do you mind if I show you some of my favorites?”

Combeferre did not mind at all. To him, sharing a beloved book was sharing a very personal part of oneself, and it thrilled him that Jehan wanted to let him in like that. If possible, Jehan’s smiled widened even more as he led Combeferre to the poetry corner.

“I’ve been studying English for a few years, so I know some good poets,” Jehan said. “I’m a literature and linguistics double major with a minor in Asian studies,” he said in way of explanation, and that should not have been as sexy as it was.

Jehan ran his slender fingers (which were decorated with chipped black nail polish) over the spines of the books, like they were well acquainted friends.

“This one,” Jehan said, picking up a slender volume, and adding it to Combeferre’s stack. He deliberated a few more. He went as far as to pick up a thick blue book, before shaking his head and returning it to its spot. “I think that would be too dark for you,” he explained. “You need to ease into it.”

Eventually, he took two more books out for Combeferre- an anthology, and one of Chatterton’s works.

“I’m a little obsessed with Chatterton,” Jehan confessed. “I have the most amazing biography on him. You should borrow it sometime.”

Combeferre nodded, following Jehan to the cashier. “Aren’t you getting anything?”

“No, I just came because I was bored. But then I found you to entertain me.”

“Happy to…entertain,” Combeferre said, wishing he were better this sort of thing. He noted the wall clock, and realized he was meant to meet Courfeyrac and Enjolras in half an hour. “Maybe I could buy you coffee sometime to thank you for showing me the books?”

Jehan bit his bottom lip. “Yeah. That sounds nice,” he said, his cheeks flushing an endearing shade of pink.

In his limited interactions, Combeferre had noticed that Jehan, when playing music, or talking about things he was interested in, was passionate and verbose. But other times, he would suddenly look at his feet and turn timid. Combeferre was good at figuring people out, but he had yet to decipher what made Jehan blush and what made him bold. It was a mystery he was keen to unravel. He wanted to get to know the man behind the sometimes sad, sometimes sweet, but always expressive eyes.

“Here,” Combeferre grabbed his receipt and scribbled down his number, praying Jehan could read his handwriting, which was deteriorating more and more into typical doctor handwriting the longer he stayed at his internship. “Call me and let me know when you’re free.”

Jehan accepted the receipt with a tentative smile. Combeferre was in the habit of giving his number to people rather than asking them for theirs- he never wanted to make anyone feel pressured, and by giving someone a number, it made the process more equal. Combeferre expressed interest, and the other party had the option of choosing to call, or not, without feeling pressured. It was a system he rather liked, but he really, really hoped Jehan decided to call.

The smaller man slipped the receipt into his pocket. “Let me help you take your books to the metro,” he said, shyly taking one of the bags from Combeferre before he could protest.  

Once they were outside, Jehan tilted his head back, embracing the cold winter air against his face. He seemed to find beauty in things most people abhorred, and that was part of what made him special.

When they got to the metro, Combeferre started down the stairs, only to realize Jehan wasn’t coming too.

“You’re not riding?”

“I like walking,” Jehan said, smiling. “Paris is beautiful in the snow.”

“You probably think Paris is beautiful all the time,” Combeferre said.

“It is,” Jehan protested. “In the sunshine, in the snow, in the rain, in the fog.”

“Paris can be dreary in the winter,” Combeferre said. He loved the city he had claimed as home, but that didn’t mean he especially loved January, once all the sparkly Christmas lights came down, and they were left with darkness and gloom. In the winter months, he liked to curl up in his home library with a mug of tea, and wait for warmer weather.

“There’s beauty in melancholy,” Jehan said, and Combeferre wondered what the world must look like through Jehan’s eyes. (He wondered what _he_ must look like through Jehan’s eyes).

“Stay warm,” Combeferre said, regretting that he couldn’t walk with Jehan and ask him to describe the sights to him, so maybe he could understand. But Courfeyrac would give him wounded looks all evening if he was late _again_ to their weekly movie night, and the only way to avoid that was to take the metro.

“You too,” Jehan handed his books back.

With one last smile and wave, he disappeared so swiftly that it was almost like he had been carried away by the wind. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry it took forever to update (if you're following any of my other fics- oh my god, I'm even sorrier). I just moved to a new city, so it's been just absolutely crazy getting settled in, and finally getting to hang out with my friends who live here who I haven't really seen in like a year. Sorry; I usually try not to talk about my personal life, but I just wanted to explain why I've been so bad about updating. Hopefully I will be better. 
> 
> Not many notes for this chapter, except Chatterton. I saw [this painting](http://www.nga.gov/content/dam/ngaweb/features/slideshows/pre-raphaelites/preraphaelites_chatterton.jpg) back in spring, and immediately thought "Jehan!". Then I read up on Chatterton, and I am convinced Jehan would be all over that. 
> 
> Title from Bastille's Weight of Living II
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	5. Lead by your Bleeding Heart

 

 

Bossuet wasn’t a nervous man by nature. He had encountered more than his fair share of bumps and bruises throughout his life, and learned that it was best to approach most situations with positive thinking and a laugh. Getting nervous or upset usually didn’t help, so Bossuet usually didn’t bother.

But today, he was meeting Joly for an important conversation, and he felt like his stomach was trying to crawl out through his throat. Despite the freezing cold, he and Joly had arranged to meet at a park that was halfway between the hospital and the Musain. It was convenient for both of them, and Bossuet regarded it as ‘their’ spot. At the least the location could be a comfort to him in case their talk went badly.

Joly was running late, but then again he usually was. It wasn’t because he was inconsiderate or absent minded- it was because he was an amazing, dedicated med student and (in Bossuet’s opinion) worked himself too hard.

In any case, it didn’t take Joly too long to materialize. He waved a mittened hand.

“Hey.”

“Hey yourself,” Bossuet greeted Joly with an Eskimo kiss, which made his boyfriend laugh. This was partly why Bossuet loved- well, not love, he shouldn’t say love, because they were supposed to be casually dating, and love was definitely not a casual word- this was partly why he liked Joly a lot. Joly genuinely seemed to find his weird sense of humor amusing.

“I’m glad you could come,” Bossuet said as Joly sat down. “I don’t want to keep you long, because I know you’re probably busy at your internship-”

Joly rewarded him with a kiss for his thoughtfulness. This threw Bossuet off for a second, because he very much enjoyed Joly’s kisses.

“Uh, yeah,” Bossuet blinked. “Yes. I wanted to ask you something.”

“Okay,” Joly looked at him attentively.

“About us.” Bossuet specified.

“Yes.”

They stared at each other. Talking about serious things weren’t either of their fortes.

“I know that we said we weren’t exclusive, but I haven’t really seen anyone else.” Or anyone else, but Bossuet didn’t want Joly to know how crazy he was about him, since Joly was the one who insisted they be casual.

“You’ve met someone,” Joly said. It wasn’t difficult to see where this conversation was leading.

“I did. And she’s great, but I like what we have, and I don’t want to date her if that’s going to ruin it.”

Joly exhaled. “No, I mean…if you like her, you should date her.”

Bossuet smiled. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Joly looked at the ground. “Maybe you should date just her.”

“You mean,” Bossuet felt his stomach drop.

Joly stared determinedly at his feet. He had an intense look of concentration on his face, and seemed to be choosing his words carefully.

“I mean I think the two of you should start with a clean slate.”

“She knows about you,” Bossuet said hurriedly. “She doesn’t care that we’re dating.”

“Maybe this is a sign,” Joly mused. “I mean, we’ve been dating for about a year, and we’re sort of stuck in the same place. It might be time for us to both move on.”

Bossuet swallowed. “If that’s what you want.”

Joly finally looked up at Bossuet.

“I think it’s for the best,” Joly said softly. “I think we’ve been growing apart for a while now don’t you think? It’s just time.”

“Yeah,” Bossuet said, trying to ignore the feeling that he had just been punched in the gut. He should have known what he had with Joly had been too good to last.

“So…I’ll see you?” Joly said.

“Yeah,” Bossuet echoed hollowly. “I’ll see you around.”

Joly opened his mouth like he wanted to say something, but instead, he gave a stiff wave, and hurried off in the opposite direction, leaving Bossuet sitting alone.

 

***

It had been an especially busy day for Feuilly. His schedule was usually pretty full, but as time drew closer and closer to the holidays, he found himself working increasingly long hours. It was the nature of the job, and he loved his job, so he wouldn’t complain, even if it meant he was leaving the office at eight at night for the second time this week.

He shut off his computer, closed up his office, and made sure the building lights were out. He was just contemplating what dinner option would be cheapest and fastest as he locked the front doors when his train of thought was interrupted by a silky voice to his side.

“You’re working late.”

Feuilly barely flinched. “Hello Montparnasse.”

The lanky man stepped out of the shadows. “I startled you this time, didn’t I?”

“No,” Feuilly lied. Montparnasse had been sneaking up on him for ages, and it was embarrassing to admit he could still do it after all these years.

Montparnasse’s smirk indicated he didn’t believe Feuilly for a second. “Are you done for today?”

Feuilly waved his worn leather briefcase that was practically bursting at the seams from being crammed full with so many papers. Montparnasse whistled.

“They don’t pay you nearly enough money.”

“I don’t do it for the money,” Feuilly said, rolling his eyes. He began the walk towards the bus stop, Montparnasse falling into step easily with him.

“Then why do it?”

Feuilly tried not to sigh audibly. They had had this conversation many times in the past. Montparnasse didn’t keep asking why he ran a nonprofit because he was trying to be annoying or rude: he genuinely didn’t understand why Feuilly would work so hard for so little money.

“It’s about helping kids.”

“No one helped us,” Montparnasse lit a cigarette. Feuilly yanked it out of his mouth. He knew for a fact Montparnasse hated smoking. He just did it because he thought it looked cool.

“Exactly. So I’m trying to change things.”

Montparnasse squinted, as if trying very hard to comprehend this. He shrugged and lit another cigarette. “Suit yourself. I look after me and mine.”

This time Feuilly actually sighed. He couldn’t blame Montparnasse for his attitude, not really. They had grown up in the same awful foster house for a large chunk of their childhood. After they were put in separate homes after their original foster parents were declared unfit, Feuilly tried to look out for Montparnasse. Sometimes they went to the same schools. Even when they didn’t, Feuilly kept tabs on Montparnasse. He had been a small, sensitive child and had trouble handling his emotions. Unfortunately, as he grew older, he got worse at it, and shut himself off more. When he did express himself, it was more often than not through violence. He and Feuilly had grown farther and farther apart. The height of their estrangement happened when Feuilly left for college on a scholarship, and Montparnasse went to jail.

The fall-out hadn’t been permanent: their bond was too deep for them to stay away from each other forever. Montparnasse occasionally popped into Feuilly’s life- usually when he was in trouble. And since he was here in person, and not calling Feuilly, he obviously didn’t need to be bailed out of jail…again.

“How are things?” Feuilly asked.

“Does something have to be wrong?” Montparnasse said. “Can’t I just want to see you?”

Feuilly waited patiently.

“I actually ask if you wanted to come out with me tonight.”

“Not really my thing,” Feuilly said.

“Oh, come on. I know a guy who owns one of the best clubs in town and he owes me a favor or two.”

Feuilly really didn’t want to know why he owed Montparnasse favors.

“There’ll be drinks and girls…what do you say?”

“Aren’t you seeing Eponine?” Feuilly asked. He only vaguely knew Eponine- she was the sister of Gavroche, who frequented the afterschool program. The poor girl seemed to work as much as Feuilly did, so he never got a chance to know her that well. But Montparnasse had come by a few times to pick up Gavroche on her behalf, so they must have been at least somewhat serious.

Montparnasse’s face darkened for a second, before he quickly adapted his usual indifferent expression. “Nah, I dumped her.”

And there it was. Montparnasse had been madly in love with Eponine, even though he never actually said so. Feuilly knew Montparnasse wouldn’t have dumped her, not in a million years.

“Did you?”

“Didn’t like being tied down,” Montparnasse said, shrugging carelessly. “She’s basically raising her brother. It made her a buzzkill. Kids are such a pain in the ass.”

Feuilly had seen Montparnasse interact with Gavroche enough to know that Montparnasse loved him like he was his own brother.

“Did you two fight before you broke up?” Feuilly asked. He finally reached the bus stop, so he took a seat on the bench. Montparnasse did not. He instead leaned against a lamppost in a pose that he probably thought looked cool. (It probably did look cool to passersby. Feuilly had just been there when Montparnasse was a teenager and watched old Hollywood movies and actually _practiced_ various poses).

“She might have been nagging me about something or another.”

This was worse than pulling teeth. “Do you remember what?”

“I might have gotten her a present, and she just went completely psycho.”

“What kind of present?” Feuilly asked patiently.

Montparnasse flicked aside his cigarette. “A new entertainment system.”

“And she was mad?”

“Women,” Montparnasse said dismissively.

“Did you… _buy_ the entertainment system?” Feuilly asked, trying to wrack his brain as to why Eponine had been so upset.

The long silence was telling enough. Montparnasse finally drew himself up indignantly.

“It’s not like Eponine is completely clean. She’s done plenty of illegal shit herself.”

“But she’s Gavroche’s legal guardian now,” Feuilly said calmly. He didn’t know all the details of Eponine’s life, but he had seen enough to infer how hard she had worked to distance herself from her family’s less than legitimate dealings. “She can’t risk getting into any trouble or they might take him away from her.”

“That’s what she said.”

“You should have listened to her.”

“Whatever,” Montparnasse snapped. “What do I care? There are plenty of other girls out there.”

“If you decide to get back together with her,” Feuilly said. “I would maybe apologize for giving her some ah…less than traditionally acquired presents.”

He had to try very hard to avoid words like “stolen” because otherwise Montparnasse would get huffy.

“I shouldn’t have to apologize,” Montparnasse said, all but pouting. “I was being nice. I went into her place when she was at work and set everything up-”

“You broke into her apartment?”

Again, Feuilly was greeted with silence. He sighed, catching sight of his bus coming around the corner. “Look, I get that you were trying to do something nice for her. But if you ever decide to do something nice for her again, don’t worry about getting her something expensive.”

“Then what should I do?” Montparnasse said, not able to completely mask his eagerness. Feuilly almost felt bad for him. Most of Montparnasse’s problems had been solved by stealing money or expensive items or threatening to stab someone. (He might have actually stabbed someone, but Montparnasse usually tried to shield Feuilly from finding out about the worst of his crimes).

“Something to show her that you listen to her.”

“How do I do that?” Montparnasse asked, a desperate gleam in his eye.

“I don’t know. _I’ve_ never dated Eponine. You’ll think of something.”

The bus slowed to a stop in front of Feuilly.

“Right,” Montparnasse muttered. “Bye Feuilly.”

“Later, Montparnasse.”

 

***

“Can I talk to you?” Cosette asked, seizing Joly by his arm before he could process her request, let alone respond and hauling him into an empty supply closet.

“Cosette,” Joly said, as she shut the door, forcing his voice to be light. “You’re a lovely girl, but I think we’re both past the phase where we make out in supply closets.”

“Oh hush,” Cosette swatted the top of his head with a spare clipboard.

Joly barely repressed his chuckle. “If you didn’t drag me in here to have your way with me,” he wriggled his eyebrows. “What did you bring me here for?”

Cosette rolled her eyes. “To talk.”

“Ah yes. Covert conversations. The second most important use of supply closets after snogging.”

“What about storing supplies?”

Joly waved this aside. “The list is snogging, having secret conversations, hiding from supervisors, crying, eating a snack you don’t want to share, and _then_ storing supplies.”

“Noted,” Cosette said. “Well, this isn’t especially secret, but I was just wondering when you were planning on asking out Musichetta?”

That sobered Joly up almost instantly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“It’s painfully obvious you two like each other.”

“I think you’re reading a little too much into things,” Joly said quietly, but firmly.

Cosette looked surprised by his tone. “I’m not, but if you don’t want to talk about it, I won’t make you. All I’m going to say is that I know someone else who is interested in Musichetta, and if you don’t make a move, he definitely will. If he hasn’t already.”

Joly closed his eyes. This wasn’t unexpected- Musichetta was gorgeous, brilliant, funny, and kind. All in all, she was quite the catch, and he couldn’t expect no one else to notice. Still, it wasn’t exactly what he wanted to hear. Especially not after breaking up with Bossuet just a few hours ago.

“That’s great. Musichetta’s great, so that’s….that’s great.”

“You’re sure you don’t want to ask her out?” Cosette looked far from convinced, but her expression indicated she was close to letting it go.

“Absolutely. I’m-”

“Great?” Cosette suggested, shaking her head sadly. “Well, I’m sure you have your reasons. I’m not going to push you.”

“Like you could,” Joly bumped his shoulder into Cosette’s, eliciting a small smile from her. So he did it again. Her smile grew and she nudged him back.

“Are we done here? We’re taking prime snogging real estate from other hospital staff.”

Cosette rolled her eyes, but she was grinning fondly. Joly reached for the door first, opened it and bowed with exaggerated formality. “My lady.”

He offered his arm, and Cosette accepted it. He just closed the door when another intern, Theo walked by and saw them exiting together. He raised his eyebrows and Cosette’s face turned scarlet. “We were just-”

Theo put his hands up. “You don’t have to explain anything to me.”

“We were plotting world domination,” Joly said gravely.

This made Theo stop and stare at him. Theo never seemed to find Joly’s sense of humor particularly funny, but Cosette giggled, and so Theo forced out a laugh too.

“Well, if you can take a break from plotting,” he said, bestowing on her a charming smile. “I would love to buy you lunch.”

Huh. Joly had never imagined the two of them together. Theo had a bit of a reputation as a player around the hospital, and Cosette didn’t seem his type. Joly would have to ask her about this later.

“I’m actually meeting Combeferre for lunch today,” Cosette said apologetically. “But rain check?”

“Let me at least walk you down,” Theo said.

“Okay.” Cosette said. She turned to Joly one more time. “And you- think about what I said.”  Joly nodded, although he wouldn’t do anything with Musichetta.

He was good at things like making his friends laugh, or making them feel better about bad situations. But relationships were never something he felt comfortable pursuing. No one should be saddled with him, his worries and anxieties. He felt bad enough burdening his friends with his humiliating panic attacks; it wasn’t fair for anyone to be expected to put up with that all the time.

So he was going to be fine like this: single. He should never have gone out with Bossuet in the first place, but he really, _really_ like Bossuet. He had been selfish, and agreed to go out with Bossuet. On top of his ridiculous internship and course schedule, he was a bundle of nerves, and it was too much to ask for someone to deal with. Who wanted a boyfriend who was usually too busy for dates, and when he actually was available, was freaking out about some malady or another. It was why he had insisted they had an open relationship: so Bossuet could find someone who deserved him. And though it hurt, Joly was sure he had done the right thing in letting him go. Bossuet had apparently found someone else, so he could finally be with someone he deserved.

And so he was fine. He was going to be fine. He could go back to being everyone’s jolly Joly as his English speaking friends called him. And that was fine. Everything was fine.

 

***

Combeferre twirled Enjolras around the studio floor with ease. They had a much easier time with dance lessons than Courfeyrac and Marius. Poor Marius- he seemed to be able to memorize the steps easily enough, but kept second guessing himself and messing up anyway. Combeferre was a quick learner, and Enjolras was obnoxiously graceful, so they had no problem mastering every dance Grantaire could throw at them.

Which was why they were currently talking in low tones, so as not to distract Marius and Courfeyrac.

“I can’t hang out tomorrow night,” Combeferre confided.

“Why?” Enjolras asked startled. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes,” Combeferre assured him hurriedly. “I just…Jehan called me right before I came in, and we’re going on a date.”

“That’s good. Right, that’s good?”

“It’s good,” Combeferre confirmed. “But I thought we could bump movie night to tonight.”

“That’s fine with me.”

“Oi, blondie! Talk on your own time,” Grantaire shouted from across the room.

“It’s not his fault,” Combeferre interjected.

“Oh just leave it,” Enjolras scowled.

“I still hear you talking,” Grantaire said in a sing-song voice, although he was watching Marius attempt to lead Courfeyrac around the dance floor.

“He always calls me out anyway. There’s no use in fighting it,” Enjolras grumbled.

“Words I never thought I’d hear you say.”

“I know when to pick my battles.”

“More words I never thought I’d hear you say.”

Enjolras purposefully banged his knee against Combeferre’s shin.

“This is a dance class, not Fight Club,” Grantaire drawled, coming closer.

“We’re sorry,” Combeferre said.

“You two have the steps mostly right,” Grantaire said. “Now we’re going to try it with actual music. You’re stiff, so we’re going to see if music loosens you up at all.”

He plugged his iPod into the stereo system, putting on some old song that sounded like it belonged in a jazz club in the 20’s. It instantly made Combeferre feel more relaxed.

“Allow me,” Grantaire pried Combeferre free from Enjolras’s grasp.

It was odd, Combeferre mused, that Grantaire had yet to actually dance with Enjolras. Not for demonstrations, not even when he was trying to correct his form. He hadn’t so much as laid a finger on Enjolras, and judging by the frown on Enjolras’s face, he had noticed too. Not that it was hard to- with only three pupils, Grantaire had gone out of his way to avoid touching Enjolras over the past few weeks, and it was obvious to everyone.

Combeferre knew it must bother Enjolras, not that he had said a word about it. Grantaire was a friend of Courfeyrac’s, and they ran into each other often enough that it made sense to be on good terms. But no matter how much progress Enjolras thought they made, even after they had spent an afternoon together at the Musain alone, Grantaire still seemed to have some kind of aversion to Enjolras. Combeferre knew Enjolras had been making a genuine effort to be nice to Grantaire, and his face at the moment betrayed no frustration at their strained relationship. In fact, Enjolras was behaving good naturedly at having his partner stolen from him. He watched them dance with his usual intensity, no doubt taking detailed mental notes.

Eventually Grantaire returned Combeferre, and after making the two of them try it with the music, he declared the lesson over. They didn’t leave immediately; they sat against the wall, sipping water.

 “So do you need help for your date with Prouvaire?” Enjolras asked unexpectedly.

“What kind of help would you give?” Combeferre asked, hiding a smile. Enjolras was good at many things, but dating was not one of them.

For once, Enjolras didn’t seem to know what to say. “I could….find Courfeyrac and ask him to help you?”

Combeferre put an arm around his shoulder, and ruffled his hair fondly. “I think I’ll be fine.”

“You like him a lot,” Enjolras stated. Combeferre nodded. “And you haven’t dated in a while.”

“Thank you for reminding me,” Combeferre said.

“Are you nervous?” Enjolras asked. “People get nervous before dates, don’t they?”

“Yes, sometimes humans get nervous before dates, you robot,” his voice soft enough so Enjolras knew he was teasing.

“Then I want to help. You could ask Grantaire for a restaurant suggestion,” Enjolras said thoughtfully. “He seems to know things like that.”

“Because R, unlike others I could mention actually eats food on a regular basis.”

“I will not be dictated by social constructions such as meal times. I eat when I’m hungry.” Enjolras said haughtily, although his cheeks tinged pink. The only reason he hadn’t gotten scurvy or starved to death by now was probably because of Combeferre and Courfeyrac. He got embarrassed when his two closest friends practically had to force feed him on several occasions. (This in Combeferre’s mind was good; if he got embarrassed, then maybe he would eventually learn to feed himself).

“Grantaire!” Enjolras snatched up his bag and jogged to catch up Grantaire before Combeferre could comment any more on his atrocious eating habits. The jogging was unnecessary- Grantaire stopped at the door as soon as he heard Enjolras call out his name. Combeferre scrambled to collect the rest of their things. He hadn’t expected Enjolras to run after Grantaire at that exact second.

“Are you going to yell at me for yelling at you?” Grantaire asked, smirking.

“That wasn’t yelling. We’ve yelled in the past. For us, that was a pleasant conversation at a raised volume.”

“Fair enough,” Grantaire said.

“I had a question, actually,” Enjolras said.

“Shoot.”

“I was wondering if you had any suggestions for a nice place to go on a date. Courfeyrac said you know all the best places.”

For some reason, Grantaire’s face fell. “Um, sure.”

Enjolras beamed, and pulled out a pen and notebook from his messenger bag, and looked at Grantaire eagerly, ready to start jotting down information.

“Oh, you meant right now? Okay,” Grantaire rubbed his neck. “I suppose if you’re looking for somewhere with a nice atmosphere, there’s a small hole in the wall place…Just give me those.”

He took the notebook and pen and scribbled in the address. He paused thoughtfully and continued writing down names. He still looked gloomy, but determined all the same to give Enjolras a comprehensive list. For a few minutes, the studio was completely silent, except for the sound of the pen scratching against the paper. Eventually Grantaire shoved the notebook back at Enjolras.

“Here,” he said gruffly.

Enjolras looked like he was ready hug Grantaire (most people didn’t realize how tactile Enjolras was), but he stopped himself, probably remembering Grantaire’s weird thing about touching him. He settled for patting Grantaire once on the shoulder awkwardly.

“Thank you!” he said, before turning to Combeferre and handing him the list triumphantly.

Combeferre accepted it, smiling at his friend. It was so rare that Enjolras saw an opportunity to help Combeferre. He led, Combeferre followed. Combeferre never minded- he wasn’t a leader, he was a guide. He helped Enjolras, and he liked it that way. But he knew it sometimes bothered Enjolras that he couldn’t reciprocate simply on the basis that Combeferre so rarely needed help. So whenever he saw a chance to do something nice for Combeferre, he seized it. Even if it meant chasing down Grantaire and getting a list that Combeferre could have asked for himself. It wasn’t the list that Combeferre felt grateful for right now- it was Enjolras’s enthusiastic support.

“Well, I hope the two of you have fun,” Grantaire said miserably, though he forced a smile.

“We will,” Enjolras said brightly. “We’re about to get take out and watch a documentary on the French Revolution.”

 “Then why did I just write out that list?” Grantaire sounded exasperated.

“For Combeferre’s date,” Enjolras said, confusedly.

Grantaire looked at Enjolras, then at Combeferre, then back again at Enjolras. “You two aren’t going on a date together?”

Combeferre snorted loudly at that. “No. No we aren’t. Enjolras is just helping me get ready.”

It was like the sun came out for both Enjolras and Grantaire. Enjolras looked so pleased to have done something helpful, and the miserable expression on Grantaire’s face evaporated.

“Well, in that case, have fun Combeferre.”

“Do you want to come?” Enjolras blurted out.

“….on Combeferre’s date?”

“I meant for take out. And the documentary,” Enjolras, looking almost as surprised at his invitation as Combeferre felt.

Grantaire resembled a gold fish: he stared at Enjolras wide-eyed with his mouth open wide. “Uh, no, that’s okay. I should go. I have things to do.”

He hurried out the door. Enjolras sighed.

“I think I moved too fast,” he mused. “We didn’t spend most of our time fighting, and I got too optimistic that we could get along.”

“You can never be too optimistic,” Combeferre said. It was Enjolras’s job to soar with his beliefs, Combeferre’s job to catch him if he fell, and Courfeyrac’s job to help him fly again.

 “Enough about me,” Enjolras said briskly. “We should google Grantaire’s suggestions to see which has the most tactical advantages.”

“Tactical advantages?”

“Distance from public transportation, nearby places of interest in case you want to extend your date, cell phone reception in case you need to call me to rescue you if it goes badly-”

“I’m planning a date, not going into battle.”

Enjolras bit his lip. “We should go get Courfeyrac to help.”

“We should get Courfeyrac to help,” Combeferre agreed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not entirely satisfied by this chapter, but there came a point when it had just been sitting there for ages, and I don't know what else to do with it. And I hadn't updated in a while, so I thought I'd post as is so I can move on to the next (hopefully better) chapter. 
> 
> Sorry about the Joly storyline. I've just read so many fics where his hypochondria is treated like a joke or a cute quirk, so I've been wanting to do a fic for a while looking at how serious it is, and how it might affect Joly's life/relationships. But do not fear: the story isn't over yet. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading. Criticism is always welcomed. 
> 
> PS. Happy New Year, everyone!


	6. Someone onto Whom You can Cling

Combeferre wasn’t usually nervous. But he also usually didn’t go out on dates. Especially not with people he really liked, and so far, he really liked Jehan.

Enjolras had gravely said they could postpone watching the documentary, and should focus on preparing Combeferre instead, earning fond laughter from both Combeferre and Courfeyrac. Enjolras had never been on a date before, and so naturally thought it was normal to approach such a thing with his usual intensity.

“Combeferre will be fine,” Courfeyrac had said confidently. “On the other hand if _you_ ever go on a date, we’ll have more cause to be concerned.”

Enjolras had huffed at that, and Combeferre had insisted on putting on the documentary.

Now, as he sat at a table for two in the restaurant Grantaire had suggested, Combeferre was starting to regret not letting Enjolras draw up contingency plans in case something went awry. He had gotten to the restaurant ten minutes early, and Jehan was so far already ten minutes late.

Combeferre’s fretting turned out to be for naught. Jehan came in, fifteen minutes late, his face red with embarrassment. Combeferre stood up to greet him.

“I am _so_ sorry,” Jehan said. “Sometimes I lose track of time.”

“That’s alright,” Combeferre sat down. “I always take forever to look over the menu, so it was good to have extra time.”

“Anything look good?” Jehan asked, leaning over to glance at Combeferre’s menu, even though he had a perfectly good menu of his own.

“How do you feel about spicy food?” Combeferre asked.

“I love it,” Jehan grinned.

After ordering an appetizer (to share) and debating their entrees, the waiter collected their menus, and they were left staring at each other. Jehan had settled back into his own chair, and Combeferre missed the warmth his body gave off. Jehan strummed his fingers absentmindedly on the table. He had reapplied his black nail polish, Combeferre noticed.

“How’s your band doing?” Combeferre asked.

“Great,” Jehan said. “I’ve been writing some new songs.”

“Do you think I could hear them sometime?”

Jehan leaned forward a little bit. “I think I could be persuaded,” he said, with a cheeky grin that contrasted with the slight blush on his cheeks.

Combeferre couldn’t help but smile back. They segued into a conversation about Jehan’s poetry. Jehan explained he usually wrote poetry first, then added music to it later, and Combeferre couldn’t help but admire the multi-talented man in front of him. He himself had a strong interest in the arts, but wasn’t very artistic himself. He was better at enjoying art than creating it. It seemed like he and Jehan might balance each other out very well.

After dinner, Jehan coaxed Combeferre into going for a walk alongside the Seine, despite how cliché it was, and despite the frigid cold, which Combeferre found he didn’t mind, especially after Jehan grabbed his hand. They walked in companionable silence. That was another thing Combeferre liked about Jehan. He was contemplative, much like Combeferre himself. When they were in the mood to talk, they were both verbose and articulate and engaging. But other times, they could be silent and thoughtful without it being uncomfortable.

Jehan broke their silence when they passed by a restaurant and could hear a jazz band playing faintly, the cold air carrying the melody into the night.

“I love this song,” Jehan said. “I mean, after they changed the original lyrics.”

Combeferre hummed in agreement. Jehan swung himself around so he and Combeferre were facing each other, and he took Combeferre’s other hand hesitantly. Then he started to sway back and forth. Combeferre would spin Jehan around, like he had been learning in Grantaire’s lessons, but it wasn’t worth risking slipping on the ice. So instead he pulled Jehan closer, so they were practically pressed against each other. He rested his chin on Jehan’s head, and could hear Jehan softly singing along with the band.

“ _Let’s do it…let’s fall in love…_ ”

 

***

Grantaire was sweating. Luckily he wasn’t sweating in an obvious, drenched with liquid kind of way, but he wiped his palms on his jeans before ringing the doorbell. To Enjolras’s house. His childhood house. Grantaire was at the house where Enjolras grew up.

How this happened was a bit of a blur. Enjolras had actually _called_ him, which never happened, and had gruffly said his mother was insisting he have at least one dance class in the suit he was wearing for the charity auction, and if it wouldn’t be too much of an inconvenience, could they have the rehearsal at their house? When asked why wearing the suit meant they couldn’t practice at the studio, Enjolras began ranting about fittings and logistics, and his _mother insisted_ , and Grantaire, gracious person he was, agreed to change the location just this once.

Rehearsal was going to be weird enough as it was. Then Courfeyrac texted him and said he and Marius would have to reschedule their lesson. Something about ‘waging war against the family of rats that had moved into their apartment’. So it was with a little trepidation that Grantaire knocked on the door to the imposing house. The door opened almost instantly.

“You must be Grantaire.” a tall blonde woman greeted him as he stepped into their huge foyer. She was standing in front of Enjolras, who looked like he had raced to the door to avoid this exact situation. “I’m Camille. I’m so thrilled to meet you.”

“You are?” Grantaire said blankly. He wasn’t even aware that she knew he existed.

“Yes, Courfeyrac has been telling me so much about you,” she said.

“You’ve been talking Courfeyrac?” Enjolras looked mildly horrified.

“If you picked up your phone once in a while, I wouldn’t have to talk to your friend to find out if you’re alive or not,” Camille said briskly. “Now you two go sit in the kitchen and have a snack before you start.”

Enjolras looked appalled at the very notion, but Camille had a firm grip on both the boys’ elbows, and steered them towards the kitchen island. Out of the four stools, two were covered with Christmas decorations spilling out of their boxes, forcing Enjolras and Grantaire to sit side by side, so close that their knees were knocking into each other.

“So you talk to Courfeyrac a lot then?” Grantaire asked.

Camille nodded as she poured them both cups of tea.

Damn that Courfeyrac. Grantaire didn’t know how exactly Courfeyrac was involved in Camille’s unsubtle attempts to get him and Enjolras (literally) closer, but he was. Grantaire hoped he got devoured by the rats.

“I’m so glad the boys were able to find a dance instructor on such short notice,” Camille continued. “Where did you learn to dance?”

“Uh…around.”

Grantaire almost flinched from the look Camille gave him. Suddenly he understood where Enjolras got _it_ from. Camille’s look wasn’t angry, like the ones he sometimes received from Enjolras, but he still understood that she expected more, and she was going to get it.

“My cousin owns a studio. He taught me some.”

He jammed a cookie in his mouth, because he didn’t talk about himself much as a rule. Luckily, Camille seemed to accept this answer.

“How lovely. I had Enjolras take ballroom dancing classes when he was younger. I have pictures somewhere I can dig up.”

“Oh my God.” Enjolras buried his face in his hands.

“Maybe later,” Grantaire swallowed before speaking, because he didn’t think Camille would tolerate bad table manners, not even from her guest. He was too afraid to excuse himself for his own sake, but to save Enjolras from a situation that made him unhappy, he could do almost anything. “Anyway, we really should get practicing.”

His efforts at a rescue were greeted with silence. “Right, Enjolras?”

Enjolras was frowning at his phone. That wasn’t unusual per say, but it wasn’t his usual angry frown. It was more a confused and worried frown, which was enough to make Grantaire feel anxious.

“Everything alright?” he asked, striving to keep his voice light.

“Combeferre can’t make it today,” Enjolras said. “He just said that he had to help a friend with something, and he can’t make it.”

“Oh.”

“We still have to wait for Courfeyrac and Marius,” Enjolras said.

“Actually…they got held up. By rats.”

Enjolras looked like he didn’t know if Grantaire was serious or not. Camille clapped her hands.

“Far be it for me to keep you boys from practicing. Off you go. Enjolras, use the basement.”

Grantaire watched her hurry off suspiciously. Courfeyrac was somehow behind this. He didn’t know exactly what Courfeyrac was doing, but there was the general sense of scheming here. And he had a feeling a Camille/Courfeyrac alliance was a force to be reckoned with.

Enjolras didn’t seem suspicious. Perhaps this was what his mother was usually like. He just lead Grantaire down the stairs like this was all perfectly normal.

Grantaire’s jaw nearly dropped when they got all downstairs. The basement at _his_ childhood house had a few beaten up sofas, an old TV, and a lot of boxes that were stashed there because there was nowhere else to put them. _Enjolras’s_ basement was gorgeous. It had furniture that was just as nice as it was upstairs, and the ceiling was much higher than he thought it would be (it did explain why there were so many stairs they had to climb down). There was even a bar alongside one of the walls.

“Wow,” Grantaire said.

“I know,” Enjolras rubbed the back of his neck. “My mother loves to entertain, and apparently the rest of the house isn’t enough for when she wants to have parties, so she had to renovate the basement too.”

He looked embarrassed. Grantaire chuckled. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone and ruin your anti-capitalist street cred.”

“I appreciate it.”

Grantaire continued to peer around, admiring the soft lighting the ample dance space. “Is this where the New Year’s Eve party will be?”

“No. Mother is renting out a hotel for that, as if this isn’t sufficient enough.”

“Scrooge.”

“How can I be a Scrooge if we’re referring to a New Year’s celebration?”

“It’s close enough to Christmas that the reference is relevant,” Grantaire insisted.

Enjolras huffed. “Let’s just get on with it. Shall we?”

Oh, shit. Right. Dance lessons. Just the two of them. He could do this.

Enjolras raised an eyebrow at him expectantly.

Shit, shit, shit. He couldn’t do this. It was _Enjolras_. Enjolras _wearing a suit_. A three piece suit. Damn Courfeyrac. Again, Grantaire didn’t know to the extent that this was Courfeyrac’s fault, but somehow it was, and he would suffer.

“Right. Um…”

Grantaire hastily opened his computer. He wasn’t prepared for this. He wasn’t prepared for it being just him and Enjolras. He didn’t want to invade Enjolras’s personal space, but on the other hand, he couldn’t very well ask Enjolras to dance with an invisible partner. _Could_ he ask Enjolras to dance with an invisible partner?

Enjolras let out a loud sigh. “Look, we can cancel the lesson for today if this is going to be a problem.”

“Why would it be a problem?” Oh God, had Enjolras _noticed_ he acted differently towards him? Of course he had, he wasn’t stupid.

“You tell me,” Enjolras said, raising his chin like he was expecting an argument.

“There isn’t a problem,” Grantaire said more harshly than he intended. He grabbed Enjolras’s hand and tugged the startled blonde towards him. Enjolras’s eyes widened in surprise and Grantaire was about to release him and apologize when Enjolras took his free hand and set it on his waist.

“I think I’ll lead this time,” Enjolras told him, as if Grantaire could ever do anything other than follow him.

Grantaire cleared his throat. “Uh, sure, okay.”

He shut his eyes, following Enjolras’s insistent lead, feeling the way Enjolras moved under his hand, and listening to his steady breathing. It was intoxicating, and Grantaire never wanted this moment to end.

“Why are your eyes closed?” Enjolras demanded.

“Trust exercise.” That was a lie. He was afraid to see Enjolras’s expression.

“How do you know I’m doing this right?”

“I’ll be able to tell,” Grantaire said.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras said insistently, and Grantaire was powerless to deny him. Enjolras’s face was closer than he would have thought. When Grantaire wretched his eyes open, and was rewarded with a small, satisfied smile from Enjolras.

“Music?” he prompted.

“Oh, right,” Grantaire (reluctantly) tore his hand out of Enjorlas’s and scurried over to his laptop and hastily clicked play. Enjolras raised his eyes expectantly and Grantaire resumed position.

Enjolras waited a measure before launching into movement. He had been wonderful when Grantaire’s eyes were shut, but with his eyes open, Enjolras was a dream. He moved around the open floor with a grace professional dancers would envy, perfectly executing the dance steps. Some people might say ballroom dancing was dull, but those people had never seen Enjolras perform. He danced with the same passion he exhibited in every aspect of his life. He was confident with the steps now, all shadow of doubt from his first lessons, gone.

So Grantaire let himself be whirled around, looking at the angelic face before him, Occasionally, Enjolras would take a break from making sure they didn’t run into walls and looked back. At one point, he quirked a smile, because it was hard to glide around the floor and get swept up in the music and _not_ feel a bit of giddy joy.

All too soon, Enjolras came to a stop. Grantaire thought perhaps he had done something wrong, but then realized the song was over.

“How was that?” Enjolras asked, releasing Grantaire. He already missed Enjolras’s hands.

“Great.”

“Shall we do another one?” Enjolras asked.

Grantaire knew there was no need, that Enjolras was probably perfect at all the dances they could try, but the selfish part of him wasn’t ready to stop yet, so he nodded and consented to another dance. Then another. But after the third dance, when Enjolras asked if they should try again, he shook his head.

“You’re incredible,” Grantaire said bluntly. “I don’t think there’s much else I can teach you.”

How he wished Enjolras were clumsy and unsure of himself like Marius. But there was no point in pretending Enjolras still needed him.

Enjolras looked surprised at the compliment. “What, no telling me I’m stiff as a board? No telling me to loosen up?”

Grantaire shook his head. “You were perfect.”

The smile Enjolras gave in response to this comment almost made his heart stop. “Well, if I’ve actually managed to impress you, I must have done something right.”

Grantaire forced a laugh. “Well, you know. You did have a good teacher.”

Bullshit. Utter bullshit. Yes, Grantaire had taught him the basic steps, but the precision, the grace, the _passion_ : that was all Enjolras.

“I suppose I did,” Enjolras squeezed his shoulder. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” Grantaire said. “I meant it though. I don’t really have anything else to teach you. You’re free.”

He had no right to hoard Enjolras’s time anymore.

Enjolras nodded thoughtfully. “That actually works out great. I have exams coming up. Plus I’m helping my mother with the preparations. You’re coming to the ball, right?”

Grantaire nodded. “Of course. The free booze was the only reason I was doing this in the first place.”

An almost perplexed expression crossed Enjolras’s face. “It’s a lot of trouble to go through for one party.”

Grantaire shrugged.

“Well, no matter why you did it, I’m grateful. Thank you,” Enjolras said in his most serious voice. “I’ll see you around.”

Yes, they would see each other around. When Enjolras occasionally came to the Musain, perhaps at another party of a mutual acquaintance or something like that. But not like this. Grantaire already missed him, and a rash, idiotic idea sprung up in his head.

“Hey, listen,” Grantaire heard the words come tumbling out of his mouth before he could stop them.

Enjolras had already divested himself of his suit jacket, and was in the process of loosening his tie. It wasn’t fair, Grantaire thought. Enjolras should not look as ridiculously attractive while taking _off_ the suit as he did in the suit.

Grantaire continued rambling. “I got assigned to review this new restaurant for the website I write for.”

“Oh,” Enjolras said. He stopped fumbling with his tie, and looked up at Grantaire, giving him his full attention. “Congratulations.”

“No, I mean that’s not why I mentioned it,” Grantaire wringed his hands. “The website gives me a ridiculous amount of money to buy a ton of food when they send me to review somewhere. And I don’t like the restaurants to know I’m a critic, because they would give me special treatment, because that’s bullshit, you know? I should be treated the same as every customer, otherwise, the review is misleading, right?”

“Yeah,” Enjolras furrowed his brow, trying to follow Grantaire’s rambling.

“What I’m trying to say is I usually try to bring someone with me, so I can order more food and therefore try more food without seeming suspicious.”

“Okay.”

“I’m trying to ask if you will come with me this Thursday. To help me with my work?”

“Oh,” Enjolras said again, looking surprised. “Of course.”

“Really?”

“It’s only fair,” Enjolras shrugged like he hadn’t almost caused Grantaire’s heart to leap out of his chest. “You’ve been helping us with dancing. I’ll help you with your review.”

Enjolras gave him a small smile, and for a moment, Grantaire could only stare, before he blinked and found his voice.

“Right. Great. Um, I can give the details to Courfeyrac later and ask him to pass them along.”

“Do you not have my number?” Enjolras said, looking almost surprised. “Here.”

He plucked Grantaire’s phone out of his hand and typed in his own number like it was no big deal before returning the phone.

“Okay, so I guess I’ll text you the details later.”

“Sounds good,” Enjolras said. “I’ll see you Thursday.”

“See you Thursday,” Grantaire echoed.

 

***

Courfeyrac sat on the kitchen counter with his knees drawn to his chest. Marius was huddled against him, clutching a broom.

“Do you think they’re gone?”

“Shhh,” Courfeyrac hissed. “They’ll hear you.”

Marius mouthed his apologies silently. Courfeyrac patted him comfortingly. They had been sitting on the counter for over an hour, listening for squeaks and scampering noises from the rodent intruders that had invaded late last night. Courfeyrac had texted Grantaire to tell him he couldn’t go to dance class, because in order for him and Marius to go to leave, they would have to touch the ground. They had made an obstacle course that allowed them to leap from furniture to furniture, but the door was just out of reach. Courfeyrac was convinced the second their feet touched the ground, the rats would strike.

It might be a good thing anyway, he thought. Dance lessons would just be Combeferre, Enjolras, and Grantaire. Ever since Grantaire had agreed to teach them, Courfeyrac had watched him more carefully. It had become obvious how infatuated Grantaire was, and Courfeyrac had wondered how he missed it before. (In his defense, he thought they were all past the age where figurative pig-tail pulling was the preferred method of wooing). It might do them some good to spend time together. Luckily, he had already enlisted in Camille’s help.

First he told her how smart Grantaire was, how he challenged Enjolras, and what a good person he was. Then he casually dropped in the information Grantaire might be madly in love with her son. She had been so eager to meet Grantaire after that, she somehow gotten Enjolras into agreeing to hold practice at their house so she could see how they interacted. He was considering asking her to find an excuse to pull Combeferre aside for a minute or two, but then she texted him saying Combeferre had to cancel for the week.

“Yes!” Courfeyrac shouted triumphantly.

“Courf, the rats,” Marius whispered, his eyes widening.

“Sorry,” Courfeyrac said, peeking over the ledge. “But things are happening.”

“What kind of things?”

“Never you mind.” Courfeyrac didn’t want to jinx anything. If he told Marius, there was a 99% chance that he might accidentally say something the next time he saw Enjolras or Grantaire. Worse, he might say something to both of them at the same time.

Marius nodded, but didn’t say anything else. That was one of the things Courfeyrac enjoyed most about their friendship. Courfeyrac was a naturally verbose person, but with Marius, he didn’t feel the need to constantly talk. His friendship with Marius offered rare moments of silence. They didn’t pry and ask questions, and yet, they never doubted that the other would be there to listen when they needed it.

He tapped his chin thoughtfully. He had no idea how the private dance lesson would go. Camille couldn’t poke her head in too often, or she might interrupt them at a critical moment.

“We should have a party,” Courfeyrac declared abruptly.

“Rats,” Marius said.

“I know you don’t like parties,” Courfeyrac continued determinedly. “But I think a party would be nice. My birthday is next week, and I know we were planning on doing trip to Monte Carlo, but I changed my mind. I want a party with my closest friends.”

A party in Courfeyrac’s mind was the perfect solution. Enjolras and Grantaire were more at ease with each other now, and a party would be a great place to get them even _more_ relaxed. Plus Courfeyrac really wanted to spy on them. And anyway, the only end of the year party he had to look forward to was Camille’s charity ball, and while he couldn’t wait to wear a suit (he looked damn good in a suit), and see Bossuet’s band play, and watch Enjolras participate in the bachelor auction, it would be nice to have a low key party with just his closest friends.

“Rats,” Marius said again.

“Stop _saying_ that. It’ll be fun.”

“No, I mean there are _rats_.”

“Oh. Right.” Courfeyrac frowned. “That would put a damper on things.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes. The only sound that filled the room was the sound of the rats scratching paws as they scampered around God knows where.

“Combeferre and Enjolras have a big apartment,” Courfeyrac mused.

“Do you think they’ll let you use it?”

“I don’t know.”

They sat in silence again, but they both nearly jumped out of their skin when they heard a squeak get closer.

“Time to abandon ship?” Courfeyrac said, clutching Marius’s arm like a lifeline.

“Absolutely.”

 

***

Eponine was in a mood. She had to pick up Gavroche from school _again_ , making her leave one of her shitty part-time jobs early, which was going to cost her a few hour’s pay. On top of a crappy day at work, and a crappy hour in Gavroche’s principal’s office, she thought she saw Montparnasse lurking around her apartment building. Normally, she would confront him, but a confrontation might end up with her fist in his teeth, and she _really_ didn’t feel like going to jail after everything that had already happened that day.

So instead she decided to kill two birds with one stone and text Marius, demanding he come over and bring alcohol. It would lift her mood, and piss off Montparnasse if he was still lurking about. Marius texted her back a few minutes later, saying he would be over soon. True to his word, Marius showed up less than half an hour later, with bottle of red wine, a box of chocolate, and a bewildered expression. He apologized profusely for being late, but explained he had to stop by the store before coming.

“I didn’t ask for these,” Eponine said, taking the chocolates nonetheless.

“You seemed upset,” Marius said. “And I thought they might cheer you up.”

Eponine hated him. Hated him and his thoughtfulness and the fact that he was utterly in love with the Mystery Nurse. But she made sure to give him a lingering hug in the doorway, just in case Montparnasse was somewhere nearby, watching.

Marius glanced around curiously. They usually hung out at his place. Eponine guided him to the couch and pushed him not-so-gently down. Marius looked at her expectantly. She usually began conversations between him, but today, she didn’t feel like it.

“Is that your brother’s?” Marius asked unexpectedly, pointing at bike in the corner.

“Yeah,” Eponine said, confused.

Marius just nodded thoughtfully. When Eponine turned to uncork the wine bottle, she heard Marius text someone.

“Do you want to talk about your day?” Marius asked.

“I want to watch a movie,” Eponine decided, pulling her beat up laptop out, and scrolling through the extensive library of questionably obtained movies.

“Which ones does your brother like?” Marius asked.

Eponine slammed her laptop shut. “What’s with the questions about Gav?”

“Um….” Marius tried to stow his phone away. Eponine easily snatched it, and held it out of his reach. She gave him her no-bullshit expression, and he sighed, cowed. “Courfeyrac is helping with the gifts at the community center, and he doesn’t know what to get your brother.”

Eponine flared. “I am perfectly capable of getting my brother a Christmas present.”

“I know-”

“I don’t need your rich friend’s _charity_ to get Gavroche a nice holiday.”

“Yes, but-”

“So you and fucking Courfeyrac can go fuck yourselves, because I am handling this fine.”

“Eponine, I _know_ ,” Marius said earnestly. “But Courfeyrac promised to get everyone something. You don’t want Gavroche to be the only one not to get a present from Santa, do you?”

She scoffed. “Gav doesn’t believe in Santa,” she paused. But that didn’t mean he should be excluded. “What’s he thinking of getting?”

Marius looked relieved she was no longer angry. “He doesn’t know. He asked me if I could come up with ideas.”

Eponine sighed. She had a hard enough time thinking of what to get her brother without sharing her hard-thought ideas with a practical stranger. “He can send ideas, and I will veto the shitty ones.”

“Really?” Marius looked at Eponine like she were a saint.

“Why not?”

She clicked on _Ever After_. She liked this particular interpretation of the Cinderella story. She liked the attempt at realism. And she liked the fact that Drew Barrymore kicked ass with a sword. She and Marius passed back and forth the bottle of wine (though she drank more of it than he did) and he texted Courfeyrac, and read aloud Courfeyrac’s ideas.

“Lego.”

“Fuck no. That little asshole would leave them everywhere, and I’ll step on them, and I swear to God, if that happens, Courfeyrac will suffer a death equally or more painful than stepping on Legos.”

“Roller skates?”

“If Courfeyrac wants to pay for the hospital bills.”

“Water gun?”

“Is he on crack?”

They continued watching the movie, and reading Courfeyrac’s increasingly outlandish suggestions. They got through ‘pony’, ‘rocket launcher’ and ‘dragon’ before Courfeyrac announced a shitty sci-fi movie demanded his full attention, but he would think of more ideas and get back to them. Eponine rolled her eyes, but was pleased to have Marius’s attention back. When they got to the part of the movie when the prince publicly denounced Drew Barrymore, Marius gasped dramatically.

“It’s just a movie,” Eponine said, nudging his ribs.

“But how could he do that to the woman he claims to love?” Marius asked, wide-eyed.

Eponine wanted to laugh at how innocent Marius was. “You can hurt people you love,” she said. Marius frowned like he didn’t quite believe her, and Eponine felt a pang of anger that Marius didn’t love _her_ , because frankly, she was tired of people who professed to love her end up hurting her. It wasn’t fair. She had put up with more than her fair of bullshit, and she deserved to have a genuinely nice guy fall in love with her. Marius would be a great boyfriend. He was sweet, and smart, and would actually take care of her and her heart.

Stupid Cosette with her kitten scrubs and perfect hair and Disney princess eyes probably had men falling over her all the time, and yet, the universe had decided to have Marius fall in love with her too.

Well fuck the universe, Eponine thought. She didn’t feel the least bit bad about not telling Marius where Cosette was, because the universe had screwed her over more times than she could count, even if she wanted to. It crossed her mind that by not telling Marius, she was guilty of hurting him, but only briefly. The thought that she could keep him to herself for at least a little longer soon got rid of any guilt she might have felt. So she scooted a little closer, and unpaused the movie.

“Keep watching,” she said, resting her head against his side. “It gets better.”

 

***

It had only been a few days since Joly had broken up with Bossuet, and they had been a miserable few days. He had gone to the hospital and buried himself with work, offering to take on other interns’ shifts, getting ahead on his coursework, and spending time in the children’s wing, since they were short on volunteers. It wasn’t nearly enough to keep his mind entirely off of Bossuet, but it helped.

“Can I have another story?” a little girl asked Joly after he had finished reading a third book aloud to a small army of tiny children. His natural goofiness and ability to do character voices had quickly won him an adoring fan club.

Joly glanced up to where Cosette was leaning in the doorway, watching the proceedings with a smile on her face. “I think that’s all we have time for today,” he said.

“Mr. Joly is right,” Cosette said. “Back to your rooms, everyone. Come on.”

Cosette and the other pediatric nurses gently ushered the children back to their rooms, which was no easy feat. Joly sat in his comically small chair (he liked to sit in a chair that was the same as the kinds the kids used, finding it made them more comfortable), and rubbed his face. Now what was he going to do? His shift was over, and he couldn’t think of anywhere to go other than home.

“Rough day?” Cosette asked sympathetically. Joly shouldn’t have been surprised she had returned so quickly; she was an expert kid wrangler.

“You could say that.”

She tilted her head, considering him. “Tonight. You, me, dinner, drinks.”

“Are you hitting on me?”

Cosette whacked him lightly with her clipboard. “I’m serious. You could use a break. What do you say?”

“I don’t know…”

“Think about it,” Cosette said. “I have another half hour, then I’m done.”

Joly nodded. “Okay then. You’re on. I’ll meet you downstairs.”

He took his time going to the locker room to change out of his scrubs. This was good, he thought. He needed to stop moping. He had made a decision, and he would have to live with it. He was suddenly glad for a night out to distract himself from Bossuet... and from Musichetta, if he was really being honest with himself.

Pleased with his decision to start being happier, he decided to take a quick walk, not wanting to wait in the lobby. It was a hospital after all, and the lobby could get very depressing. His feet almost automatically took him to his and Bossuet’s park. Well, it wasn’t _their_ park. There was no ‘they’ any more. But he was sure he couldn’t go to the park. Not yet.

So instead, he turned and decided to walk a few blocks and make a loop back to the hospital. The cold air was invigorating. It was only the afternoon, but it was already getting dark. Slowly, businesses turned on their Christmas lights, illuminating the streets, and Joly let the warm yellows cheer him. Until he was so immersed in admiring the decorations that he ran into a couple that was strolling just ahead of him and promptly fell over.

“Sorry!” Joly said, feeling humiliated. “Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.”

He accepted the hand offered to him, and was hoisted to his feet. The situation went from bad to worse, when he realized the hand belonged to Bossuet. Joly’s voice deserted him, and he could only stare wide-eyed at his ex-boyfriend.

“Joly?”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. Joly hadn’t noticed the woman walking hand in hand with Bossuet was Musichetta.

“H-hey,” Joly could feel his cheeks burning. This was the worst day ever.

For a moment, the three of them stared at each other. Musichetta was the first to speak.

“This is Bossuet,” she said.

“We’ve met,” Bossuet said, looking determinedly at Joly. Joly wished he wouldn’t.

Musichetta raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Oh.”

She seemed to have run out of things to say. Joly wished the ground would swallow him up right then and there. Musichetta and Bossuet were both staring at him, and he couldn’t think of an excuse to _leave_ , so the three of them were just standing there, not talking. Both Bossuet and Musichetta seemed to be waiting for _him_ to speak, and for the life of him, he couldn’t think what to say. _I think I’m a little in love with both of you_.

“Joly? Musichetta?”

Oh God, what now? Joly swiveled and saw Combeferre walking up the sidewalk behind them. He belatedly realized their awkward meeting was blocking a Metro entrance.

Combeferre nodded at Bossuet in vague recognition as he assessed the situation. “I was looking for you,” he said to Joly.

“Were you?”

“We had plans,” Combeferre lied easily. Joly could kiss him, but that would take this fiasco to a whole other level of awkward.

Musichetta seemed almost disappointed at this revelation. “Oh.”

Bossuet was looking between Combeferre and Joly with suspicion, and (perhaps this was wistful thinking on Joly’s part) a hint of jealousy.

“Yes. Plans,” Joly said faintly.

Combeferre put his hand on Joly’s shoulder and steered him towards the Metro. “We’ll see you later,” he said to Musichetta, taking the responsibility of talking away from Joly.

Joly walked down the stairs almost mechanically. “I’m supposed to meet Cosette,” he remembered.

Combeferre hummed. “Do you want to go back?”

No. No Joly did not. They might run into Bossuet and Musichetta again. He shook his head.

“I’ll text Cosette. She can meet us at my apartment. It’s only one stop away.”

Joly nodded, not really listening to what Combeferre was saying. He felt like throwing up. He couldn’t stop replaying the encounter in his head. Musichetta and Bossuet looked like they belonged together, and he didn’t know which of them he was more jealous of. Of course they would be together: they were beautiful, and smart, and kind, and baggage-free. He hoped they would be happy.

By the time Joly was able to think of anything other than Bossuet and Musichetta, he was standing in front of an unfamiliar door that Combeferre was opening.

“This is me,” Combeferre said, gesturing for Joly to step in.

Joly had never been to Combeferre’s flat before. It wasn’t as neat as he thought it would be. But he suspected the political books and pamphlets lying around belonged to Combeferre’s roommate.

Suddenly, with a jolt, Joly remembered. Combeferre was supposed to be at dance lessons with his roommate.

“Thanks for rescuing me,” Joly said. “But I should go.”

“Why?” Combeferre asked, frowning slightly.

“You have your lessons.”

Combeferre waved that off. “I already told them I’m not coming.”

“You did? Why?”

“Because you’re more important,” Combeferre said, steering Joly over to the plush couch. “And anyway, I think if I go, I suspect I would be interrupting one of Courfeyrac’s schemes, and I don’t want to deal with the aftermath of _that_.”

Joly nodded like he understood the last part.

“Cosette is on her way,” Combeferre continued, sitting next to Joly. “She’s bringing food.”

“Bless her,” Joly said, shutting his eyes.

He tried to blot out his thoughts, to focus on the TV when Combeferre turned on the news. It didn’t help. The only thing that was vaguely soothing was when Combeferre brewed some kind of tea for him. They sat in a vaguely comfortable silence, until there was a loud knocking at the door.

They both stared at the door. That was not how Cosette would knock on a door, Joly was almost positive. It was too brash, too insistent. Combeferre frowned slightly as he slid off the sofa and went to answer it.

“Aren’t you supposed to be at Enjolras’s?” Combeferre asked as a curly headed man slipped in. Courfeyrac, Joly’s mind supplied him. He had met him the few times he had gone to protests with Combeferre.

“I could say the same to you,” Courfeyrac retorted. “Anyway I thought Enjolras and R could use some one on one time. Tutoring. I meant tutoring.”

Combeferre looked suspicious. Courfeyrac blinked innocently at him.

“Are you meddling?”

“Meddling with what?”

“You know what.”

Courfeyrac looked outraged. “ _You_ know? You know he likes him, and you didn’t say _anything_ to me?”

“I only guessed about a week ago,” Combeferre shrugged. “You’re the one who knows R better. You should have figured it out sooner.”

“I did, I just didn’t know I could tell you! But now that I know you know, we should talk about what we’re going to about it.”

“I’m leaning towards nothing,” Combeferre said. His friend sputtered indignantly, before noticing Joly.

“Joly! I didn’t see you over this mountain of betrayal.”

“So the figurative mountain of betrayal has a physical form?” Combeferre asked.

Courfeyrac ignored him, and bounded over until he was right next to Joly. “If you thought two of your friends could live happily ever after but they had trouble realizing this for themselves, _you’d_ help them, wouldn’t you?”

“Uh…”

“See, Joly is a good person,” Courfeyrac said. He beamed at Joly, who couldn’t help but smile back weakly. Apparently this small smile wasn’t enough. “A good, but sad person. You know what would cheer you up, Jolllly, my man?”

Joly’s smile grew a little at the exaggerated way Courfeyrac said his name. “What?”

“A party,” Courfeyrac said.

“A party where?” Combeferre said suspiciously.

“Here?”

Combeferre looked unimpressed with this suggestion.

“Please?” Courfeyrac gave his friend a pleading look that seemed to have no effect. Maybe Combeferre was used to it. “For my birthday?”

“We’re going to Monte Carlo for your birthday. Do you know how hard it was to convince Enjolras to agree to go?”

“But think about it. Wouldn’t we have so much more fun here?”

“I could email you the PowerPoint you made us sit through to convince us to go to Monte Carlo, but it’s your birthday, so I’ll let you decide. But what’s wrong with your apartment?”

“Rats,” Courfeyrac said simply.

Joly shuddered.

“Did you abandon Marius?”

Courfeyrac huffed indignantly. “I would never. He’s at his friend Eponine’s. He’s supposed to be spying on her brother for me.”

“I don’t even want to know,” Combeferre decided. “Who’s coming to your party?

“Well, you, obviously. Marius. Probably Eponine if she wants to, because she scares me a little. Enjolras…Grantaire…..”

Combeferre frowned at that. “We are not meddling with them.”

“I never agreed to that. Joly, you have to come too.” Courfeyrac said, smacking his knee.

“Really?”

“Of course. And no presents required. Just the gift of your friendship.”

Combeferre snorted at the cheesy sentence, but it made Joly feel warm inside. It was odd how Courfeyrac could spurt out the most ridiculous sounding phrases, but still come across as being completely sincere.

“If I don’t have to work,” Joly said.

“I’ll hold you to that,” Courfeyrac replied.

Cosette arrived not too much later, laden with food. Courfeyrac made as if to leave, but they all insisted he stay. Joly was glad for his presence. Combeferre and Cosette were his friends, and they calmed him, but Courfeyrac radiated a natural warmth. Joly didn’t want to just be soothed, he wanted to be happy again, and for some reason, Courfeyrac made it easier.

He could push thoughts of Musichetta and Bossuet not _out_ of his mind, but he could at least banish them to the periphery. They ate the food Cosette brought, and fought for control over the remote so they could find something to watch on TV. Cosette was texting Theo (she clearly thought she was being discreet). Combeferre and Joly exchanged dark looks. Courfeyrac too, was occasionally typing out messages on his phone.

“His boyfriend? Girlfriend?” Joly guessed after Courfeyrac whipped his phone out for a tenth time.

“His Marius,” Combeferre said dryly. Joly wasn’t sure if that was a yes or not.

“Marius?” Cosette’s head popped up. “Theo has a cousin named Marius.”

“Theo Gillenormand?” Courfeyrac tucked his phone away. “I’ve met him. That guy’s a real di-” something about Cosette’s expression made him hastily censor himself mid-word. “-delightful human being.”

Cosette raised her eyebrows, but her phone buzzed again, so she was sufficiently distracted.

The next and final interruption to the string of bad sci-fi movies (the only thing they could all agree to watch) was when Combeferre’s roommate came back.

“Hey Enjolras,” Courfeyrac said.

Enjolras raised his eyebrows. “I thought you were being mauled by a rat family.”

“He decided to move in with us instead,” Combeferre said. He didn’t seem to mind terribly. Courfeyrac had decided Combeferre’s lap was the best pillow, and had been resting his head on it for the past half hour.

“How were dance lessons?” Courfeyrac asked.

“Fine.”

“You and R get along?”

Joly and Cosette’s heads turned so fast it was astonishing they didn’t sprain anything. They had heard Combeferre and Courfeyrac discussing what to do, or what not to do about Enjolras and Grantaire so much that at this point, they were fairly invested in this relationship themselves.

“I suppose,” Enjolras said. “We’re getting dinner together Thursday.”

Courfeyrac made a noise that could only accurately be described as a squawk. Combeferre gently tugged on his curls to get him to be quiet.

“Are you?” Combeferre asked calmly as Enjolras rummaged around the refrigerator. When he shut it, clutching a glass of orange juice, he seemed surprised to see four pairs of eyes fixed so intently on him.

“Yes,” he took an agonizingly long sip. When he realized they were waiting for him to elaborate, he added, “He’s reviewing a restaurant and wanted another person to be there with him.”

“Is that what they’re calling it these days?” Courfeyrac muttered. Combeferre yanked his hair harder this time.

Enjolras looked confused, so Courfeyrac waved him to join them. He tentatively sat on the floor next to Joly and nodded at him. Eventually, everyone stopped casting curious glances at Enjolras, and focused on the movie. Enjolras, who didn’t understand that they were watching the movie _because_ it was awful, seemed perplexed by the bad plot and characterizations and kept asking questions to try and make sense of them. Combeferre replied with answers that were either sarcastic or surprisingly intelligent solutions to the plot holes and bad science, showing he could have done a better job writing the movie than the original screenwriters.

Courfeyrac seemed content to sprawl across Combeferre’s lap and occasionally startle them all with his loud laughter when something especially ridiculous happened on screen. Cosette had set aside her phone, and abandoned the sofa, and curled up next to Joly, resting her head on his shoulder.

And Joly found his mind turning to Bossuet and Musichetta less and less. He would probably remember and fret and obsess the next morning when he woke up. But for now, surrounded by friends, he felt that maybe things could be okay.

 

 

                                                                

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! I'm so sorry for the delay. I'm not 100% satisfied with what I wrote (when am I ever), but it's been like a month since I updated, and I felt bad. I've been really busy, but I wanted to update, and if I waited, until I was completely happy with this chapter, I don't think I'd ever post it. 
> 
> The song Jehan is singing is, "Let's do it, let's fall in love", which I just like. But the original lyrics were a little racist, so I felt they boys would at least mention that, and make it clear they liked the more politically correct version. 
> 
> Chapter title taken from Bastille's 'Sleepsong'.


	7. Tell yourself this is how it's going to be

The universe hated Eponine, and Eponine hated the universe. That was the only conclusion she could come to after five hours of watching it rain from her ceiling. She had called her useless landlord, who was of no help. She had tried googling possible solutions, all of which required expensive equipment she didn't have. The only other thing Eponine could think to do was break into the maintenance closet and steal her landlord's tools. (She'd say 'borrow' but it had been five fucking hours, her bathroom was flooded, her shirt probably ruined, and that could have all been avoided if her landlord had come in a timely manner. That asshole wasn't getting his tools back). She had gotten to the point of slipping on her shoes when someone knocked on the door. It wasn't the landlord. 

It was Marius. 

"Hello," he said, waving his hand that held a copy of _Plumbing for Dummies_. The other hand held a large red tool box that looked brand new. 

Eponine stepped aside to let him in. "What are you doing here?"

"I saw your Twitter."

Ah, yes. In between switching out buckets and trashcans of water, dumping them, and hating her life, Eponine had posted increasingly angry tweets. Venting on the internet made it less likely she would vent on her landlord's skull. With the wrench Eponine almost stole from him. 

"So you just..." Eponine eyed the book, which had obviously never been opened before. "You saw my tweets and decided to buy a book and tools and come over and help me?"

Marius nodded, suddenly looking worried he had overstepped some boundary. "Sorry, I mean, I know you're good at figuring things out, and I didn't mean to imply you weren't, but I thought two pairs of hands were better than one?"

His voice trailed off at the end and he looked terrified he had accidently offended Eponine's sense of independence. But she flung her arms around his neck. 

"Thank you."

She doubted very much that Marius would be much physical use in this instance - he wasn't exactly the best handyman. Eponine had to go to his and Courfeyrac's apartment just a week ago and show them how to set rat traps and Marius had nearly snapped off one of his fingers when he tried it himself. But he was smart and eager to help, and most importantly he was _there_. He had apparently bought a book and tools because he wanted to help her. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had cared enough about her to do something like that.

“Shall we get started?” Marius asked, his voice muffled from where his face was still pressed against Eponine’s shoulder.

“Right, yes,” Eponine said.

Fixing the ceiling wasn't an easy task. For one thing, the ceiling was too high for Eponine or Marius to reach. None of the chairs in the apartment were tall enough, so eventually, Eponine got exasperated.

"Stand still," she ordered Marius.

He froze. Eponine pulled herself up on the counter, pushed Marius so he was awkwardly crouching, then without ceremony, slung her legs over his shoulders.

"Okay, stand up," Eponine said.

Marius did, his face red either from exertion or embarrassment. Possibly both. With their combined height, Eponine was finally able to reach the leaking ceiling. After another tense five minutes, they were able to stop the leaking.

"Yes!" Eponine said, sliding down. Marius let out a sigh of relief, having been far more concerned with her falling than she had been. She was a little impressed that Marius had somehow managed to hold the instruction book and call up directions while also gripping Eponine's ankles with his arms.

“We did it,” Marius beamed, looking incredibly proud of their efforts.

“Let’s not get carried away,” Eponine grumbled, picking one of her ruined towels off the floor. “It’s not fixed, but it should be good enough until the landlord gets off his lazy ass and actually fixes it.”

“Well, it’s better than nothing,” Marius said, refusing to let Eponine damper his enthusiasm.

She rolled her eyes. “Okay. Fine, yes. We did something. It’s no longer raining in my apartment. How can I thank you for- whoa.”

Marius was peeling off his sweatshirt. And his shirt. His shirt was coming off his body. Eponine forgot to breathe for a second.

“Help?” Marius said, flopping his arms around helplessly.

Eponine crossed the space between them and lifted off both his layers. “This isn’t what I had in mind when I asked how to thank you,” she said, batting her eyes flirtatiously.

Marius looked slightly bewildered at his sudden half-naked state, and folded his arms quickly, his face and torso turning red. “Sorry,” he squeaked as if his semi-nudity had somehow offended Eponine.

He backed out of the bathroom, still covering his chest. Eponine followed, wanting to tell him how ridiculous he was being.

“Marius-” she began, a rare smile forming on her lips.

But before she could tease him, Marius scooped up his jakcet from where he had put it on the couch when he first came in her apartment and handed it to her.

“You look cold,” he said.

She gently took the faded blue garment. It was soft and well-worn. Her heart fluttered as she slipped it over her head. (Marius hastily pried his t-shirt from his sweatshirt before shoving the shirt back on).

Something in Eponine hardened. This was the universe once again being a dick.

She was literally in her shortest shorts, wearing a soaked t-shirt, and had spent the last five minutes with her thighs around Marius’s head. And all he did was say she must be cold and give her his jacket. Every other guy she knew would have made a pass at her by now, but not Marius. It figured that the only guy she knew who was actually a good person would never look at her the way she looked at him.

And she was really, _really_ fucking tired of this. The universe, it seemed would taunt her by giving her a taste of something she wanted, but would it was never quite enough. She moved out of the hell hole that her parent’s apartment, and but was now living in a leaky apartment. She had financial independence, but she had to work herself to the bone to maintain it. She got guardianship of Gavroche but never had time to see him. She had a guy who was crazy about her, but he was a criminal. And she had Marius as a friend, but he was never going to love her.

Was there some higher power that enjoyed taunting her? Was it entertaining to someone to watch her exhaust herself physically and emotionally chasing things she knew she deep down would never attain?

Fuck that.

“I found the nurse,” Eponine said abruptly.

Marius clutched her wrist. “You did?” he asked breathlessly. His eyes shone bright with hope. It probably didn’t even occur to him to ask her why she was only telling him now.

Eponine nodded brusquely. She found a nearby Sharpie and scribbled the hospital name on a piece of paper and offered it to Marius with only the slightest hesitation.

“You’re an angel,” Marius said, kissing her cheek. He bolted towards the door. “Will you be alright?”

He inclined his head towards the bathroom, and Eponine knew that if she asked him to, he would wait for her landlord to get there to fix the ceiling. Her cheek still tingled where his lips had touched it.

“I’m always alright,” she said, lifting her chin proudly.

“I’ll see you later then,” Marius said. “I owe you.”

Eponine closed her eyes as she heard the door slam shut. Marius was gone forever now. He would find Cosette and they would be perfect and adorable and happy together. He had never been hers to lose. Eponine knew that. She had always known that, even before Cosette came into the picture. The only thing that lessened the sting was the fact that Eponine had given him up anyway. She knew that the universe probably wanted her to pine miserably after him. She was probably supposed to continue to selfishly cling to Marius.

If she were honest with herself (which she usually was), Eponine knew that she would still probably pine after Marius. But at least she had started the process of letting him go on her own terms. And for once, that almost felt like enough.

 

***

Bossuet stared at his menu determinedly, despite already knowing what he was going to order. (He always researched menus before going to restaurants, after too many incidents with getting allergic reactions to something he ordered). Musichetta also pretended to be immersed in her menu. She was staring at it, but her eyes were glazed over. She looked up when she seemed to sense Bossuet’s eyes on her.

“So…” she said, breaking off a piece of bread. “How do you know Joly?”

“How do _you_ know Joly?” Bossuet shot back, realizing he sounded equal parts childish and panicky.

“We work together,” Musichetta said.

“We used to date,” Bossuet mumbled.

The normally unflappable Musichetta looked surprised by this. She recovered quickly.

“Oh,” she dipped her bread in the sauce in front of her. “How long ago did you date?”

“We just broke up,” Bossuet admitted.

This time, Musichetta wasn’t able to hide her astonishment. “ _Joly_ is the boyfriend you just broke up with?”

Bossuet nodded miserably. “I didn’t break up with him. He dumped me.”

“ _Why_?”

It didn’t make sense. Bossuet shot Musichetta a despondent look, and she tried to rephrase her question to make it slightly softer.

“I mean…he just out of the blue decided you two shouldn’t date anymore?”

“He said we’d been growing apart,” Bossuet said, trying and failing to act like he wasn’t still upset by this.

“Did you feel the same way?” Musichetta asked gently.

“It doesn’t matter,” Bossuet lied.

Musichetta pursed her lips.

“Let it go,” Bossuet implored her.

She raised her hands innocently. “I’m just trying to see if there’s something weird going on. Joly always seems like he’s holding back, and I’m just trying to understand him. You’ve known him longer.”

Bossuet sighed. “I don’t know. I thought things were fine until suddenly they weren’t. I liked him and he liked me, or so I thought.”

Musichetta hummed thoughtfully.

“What did you mean he seems like he’s holding back?”

“We got along really well. But if we started to get too friendly, he’d freak out and clam up.”

That wasn’t the answer Bossuet was expecting. “Friendly as in….flirting?”

Oh no. Musichetta was going to leave him and be with Joly. Of course. He dated Joly for a year, and he was lucky enough to go on a date with Musichetta, but that obviously couldn’t last. They would be good together, he thought. Well, he reasoned. It wasn’t in his destiny to have a good thing for too long. If they he couldn’t be with either Musichetta or Joly, at least they would have each other. They deserved each other.

“You’re thinking too much.” Musichetta took a long sip from her wine glass, surveying Bossuet, and waiting for him to calm down. “You like me. You like Joly.”

Bossuet nodded helplessly. It wasn’t like there was any point in denying it. Musichetta smiled.

“I like you. I like Joly.”

“Um-”

“And I _think_ Joly might like us both.”

“If he liked me, he wouldn’t have dumped me,” Bossuet said, trying not to sound too gloomy.

“Maybe, maybe not.” Musichetta said.

“Well either way, this is a terrible situation,” Bossuet sighed. “Liking two people – either way you choose, you lose.”

Musichetta snorted. “My dear, you lack imagination.”

Bossuet tipped his head, confused. Musichetta liked him and Joly….Joly liked Musichetta. For some reason Musichetta thought there was a chance Joly liked him, despite recent dumpage. Someone was going to get left out, and hurt unless…oh. _Oh._

“Oh,” Bossuet exhaled.

Musichetta winked.

“Are you actually suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?” Bossuet said, his voice rising into a squeak.

“What I’m saying is I think we need an expert.”

 

***

Marius had left Eponine’s running faster than he ever had in his life. Which admittedly wasn’t very fast. But he would rather run until his lungs felt like iron and his legs felt like they were about to fall off than wait for a bus or sit on the subway. He only stopped to buy a bouquet of flowers, because if you were going to meet a girl you’d been looking for for over a month, bringing her flowers seemed like an appropriate thing to do.

He was about three blocks from the hospital when he saw her. He felt his heart speed up, and his breathing slow down. She was just as beautiful as he remembered. And he suddenly realized he had no idea what he was going to say to her.

It was okay. There was another two blocks. He could figure it out. There was time.

He was so immersed in what he was going to say, he didn’t notice the girl’s steps quicken, or the worried looks she cast over her shoulder. He let his feet carry him after her, his mind stutter as he tried to think of a suitable way to initiate a conversation. He rounded a corner, and suddenly felt nothing but searing, searing pain.

“Freeze!” came a terrified voice.

Marius cried out as something was sprayed into his face. There was a gasp.

“I know you!” the girl cried, sounding horrified. “You were at the protest.”

“These are for you,” Marius choked out, sticking the flowers out in the general direction her voice was coming from, his eyes firmly screwed shut. He could feel tears squeezing out from under his eyelids anyway.

“I’m so sorry,” the girl said, sounding close to tears herself. “I’ve never actually used it. I just moved out of my father’s house, and he was so nervous, he bought me some pepperspray, and I thought you were going to attack me. Oh God, it looks awful. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not so bad,” Marius lied. He didn’t want the girl to feel bad. "It's okay."

“No, no it’s not.”

“It’s really not that painful,” Marius rubbed his eyes.

The girl snatched his hands, and he felt, rather than saw his flowers fall to the ground. “Don’t do that. You’ll make it worse. Come on. We’re close to the hospital. I’ll get you set up.”

“You don’t have to,” Marius said desperately. He had already apparently scared and upset this girl. He didn’t want to inconvenience her as well. What he really wanted was to kneel over and let the pain from the pepper spray consume him until he forgot about this embarrassing episode.

“It’s the least I can do. Come on,” the angel still held his hands firmly, and led him towards the hospital.

 

***

Enjolras’s first thought when he entered the restaurant was that it was nice. Really nice. He almost came in just jeans and a t-shirt, but had been ambushed by Courfeyrac who forced him to change into black jeans and a blazer, insisting, "This is important to Grantaire". Enjolras didn't really understand why (was Grantaire up for a promotion that hinged on how well he did this review or something?) but at that moment, he was glad for Courfeyrac’s interference. At least he wasn't _too_ woefully underdressed.

He spotted Grantaire before Grantaire spotted him. To his surprise, Grantaire looked nervous. It was the first time he had ever seen Grantaire look vulnerable. He was obsessively adjusting and readjusting the table dressings. So maybe this review was extra important after all.

"Hey," he said, once he reached the table. "Sorry I'm underdressed."

"No, you look great," Grantaire said slightly breathlessly.

“Thanks,” Enjolras sat down across from him. “Is there a menu?”

“I already ordered food for us,” Grantaire said, sounding apologetic.

“Great.”

“Really?” Grantaire looked surprised.

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“You don’t seem like you would like people making decisions on your behalf,” Grantaire said, a hint of a smile settling on his lips.

Enjolras couldn’t help but laugh at this assessment of himself. “Normally, I don’t. But in this case, I defer to your expertise.”

“You’re too kind.”

“And anyway, it’s your…thing,” Enjolras said. He didn’t think he was supposed to say ‘restaurant review’, since Grantaire had made of a point of saying that he liked to be incognito when he actually conducted his reviews.

Grantaire nodded. “Right. My thing.”

Their waitress arrived, and placed a bread basket between them. Her eyes flitted between the two of them, and she _sighed_. Enjolras shot her a quizzical look and she bright pink before scurrying away.

Grantaire reached for the bread first.

“Did you know that breaking bread is an almost international sign of peace?”

“Is it?” Enjolras said, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. “Do you think we need to symbolically break bread to get along tonight?”

“It can’t hurt,” Grantaire said, offering the basket to Enjolras.

Enjolras took a roll, and made a great show of slowly breaking it in half. "Satisfied?"

Grantaire laughed and broke his bread too before dipping it in the oil and herb sauce in front of them. "Very."

Enjolras laughed too, surprised at how easy, how nice this was. His laughter seemed to make any remaining tension from Grantaire disappear.

"Bread was also banned during the first French Revolution, because it reminded the revolutionaries of the aristocracy too much," Grantaire said. "According to Article 29, subsection....was it 8 or 9?"

Enjolras blinked. "Erm...I'm not sure. Where Article 29 of what?"

"From the Bastille Accord," Grantaire said breezily.

Enjolras wracked his brain, trying to sift through all his French Revolution knowledge. "I haven't heard of that before," he admitted.

"I'm impressed you're able to admit you don't know something," Grantaire said. "Especially when it's such an glaring lapse in general knowledge. I mean, I would expect a 5th grader to know that. And you, a college history enthusiast... that's embarrassing."

He shook his head. He wore a serious face, but was betrayed by a slight twinkle in his eye.

"You just made that entire thing up didn't you."

Grantaire looked excessively pleased with himself. "You should have seen your face."

Enjolras narrowed his eyes, but when Grantaire raised his eyebrows, he couldn’t help but crack a smile. For the rest of the dinner, Grantaire would describe the dishes to Enjolras. In some cases, he would tell real stories or facts, and in other cases, he would make something up. It became a game, for Enjolras to guess what was true and what wasn't.

"That's obviously a lie." Enjolras took a bite of his dessert.

Grantaire shrugged. "Would you care to make it a wager?"

“Wager what?”

“I don’t know yet. You’ll owe me a favor.”

“That seems like a foolish bet to accept.”

“Scared?” Grantaire feigned shock.

It was a dumb, obvious technique that of course going to work on Enjolras, who was almost physically incapable of backing down from a challenge. “Fine. But I refuse to believe cheesecake was originally consumed by the ancient Greeks. It has to be a more modern creation. You’re bluffing.”

“Wrong, my friend,” Grantaire smirked. He pulled out his phone and pulled up a webpage.

“Wikipedia doesn’t count as a legitimate source!”

Grantaire’s fingers flew across the keyboard and pulled up another website. This time, Enjolras conceded defeat.

“Okay. I owe you one favor. What’s it going to be?”

Grantaire tapped his chin. “I have to think about it.”

Enjolras scoffed and took Grantaire’s napkin. He wrote carefully, “I owe Grantaire one favor” and signed and dated it. Grantaire took his napkin and rolled his eyes.

“You’re ridiculous,” he said fondly.

“I’m training to be a lawyer,” Enjolras retorted. “Written documentation is important.”

Their waitress chose this moment to resurface. “Did you boys have a good evening?”

“We did,” Enjolras smiled.

She glanced back to the wait station, where there were an alarming number of staff standing there, staring at their table. Enjolras had noticed their numbers growing steadily all night. What he hadn’t realized that they were all staring at him and Grantaire.

“I’m sorry to ask,” she said. “But we all thought you two are just _adorable_. How long have you been dating?”

Enjolras blinked at her because what?

The waitress shifted uncertainly. Enjolras realized both he and Grantaire were staring at her- Enjolras with a blank expression, and Grantaire with an expression akin to horror. He then realized how ridiculous this whole situation was, and burst out laughing. Grantaire had only just started tolerating Enjolras, and they were entering a (very) tentative friendship, so the idea that this was a date was just absurd. Grantaire had only asked him there because he needed an extra person.

"We're not dating," Enjolras informed their bewildered waitress.

"My mistake," she said, turning pink.

"No, it's fine. We're just...not…."

She nodded, and grabbed their empty glasses before scurrying away.

Grantaire was staring off into the distance, with a peculiar look on his face. It took Enjolras a few seconds to realize that he was upset.

"Grantaire?"

Grantaire jerked out of whatever reverie he had been in. "Why was that so funny?"

"What?"

"You thought it was pretty hilarious, the idea of the two of us on a date," Grantaire said. He tried to give a grin that came out more like a grimace. "Why?"

"Well, you know," Enjolras said, at a loss at how to articulate himself for once in his life. He awkwardly gestured between them. "I'm you know...me. And you're...you."

Grantaire's grimace grew more pained by the second. "Oh."

Something was wrong, and Enjolras wasn't sure what, but he had to fix it. It suddenly struck him that the waitress's assumption had made Grantaire uncomfortable. Why wouldn't it? He was revolted by the very thought of dancing with Enjolras, of even being in the same space as him less than a month ago. Of course the idea that people thought they were a couple was making Grantaire upset. Enjolras hastened to reassure him.

“Don’t worry. I don’t think anyone else would _actually_ think we’re dating,” Enjolras said. “It’s too ridiculous.”

Grantaire swallowed, and nodded. “Right. Got it.”

“Good,” Enjolras said. Grantaire was still clearly upset, but hopefully he would calm down and they could still be friends, because Enjolras had had a surprisingly good time with Grantaire. He wanted to add extra assurances for good measure. “Because you know I would _never_ try anything. Ever.”

Grantaire nodded his head jerkily, avoiding eye contact. He waited only long enough to get a copy of the receipt before stuffing on his jacket and rushing towards the door. Enjolras had to scramble to keep up with him. He noticed some of the lingering wait-staff shaking their heads sadly in his general direction, but he didn’t have time to think why.

“Grantaire, wait!”

Grantaire came to an abrupt halt on the pavement.

“What?”

Enjolras tied his scarf tightly around his neck. “Thank you for inviting me. It was fun.”

The hollow laugh he received caused a chill to run down his spine. “Yeah. It was a barrel of laughs.”

“We could hang out again sometime,” Enjolras said.

“I don’t have any more reviews that I need to go undercover for coming up,” Grantaire said.

Enjolras frowned. “I meant we could just hang out. We’re friends now, aren’t we?”

“Are we?” Grantaire finally looked at Enjolras. “I’m sorry. That was unfair. You’re right, we should be friends. I just…need some space.”

“Did I do something?” Enjolras asked, feeling his stomach drop with dread.

“No,” Grantaire said firmly. “You haven’t done anything wrong. And I know I don’t have any right to be upset, I just can’t help it.”

“Let me help.” Enjolras took a step forward and put a cautious hand on Grantaire’s shoulder.

A flash of irritation crossed Grantaire’s features. “You can’t _fix_ everything, Enjolras. I’m not your charity project.”

“No, you’re not. You’re my friend.”

“If you’re my friend, then let me go,” Grantaire said.

So Enjolras did, letting his hand fall. He watched Grantaire’s retreating figure with a feeling akin to regret.

 

***

Cosette sighed internally. She had had a long day. She had been stalked. She had pepper sprayed her assailant, who turned out to be a very cute boy. She was waiting for said cute boy to get released from the emergency room. Now she had just taken advantage of the quiet cafeteria and tucked herself in a corner and was reading magazines on some new scientific advancements that could affect medical treatments over the next few years. She was so out of it, she was taken completely by surprise when Bossuet slipped in a seat across from her and Musichetta took the one next to her, effectively trapping her.

“You don’t work here,” she said dumbly as Bossuet handed her a cup of coffee in a to-go cup.

“Can’t I visit my favorite customer and see how she’s doing?”

Cosette suspiciously sniffed the coffee. It had been brewed at the Musain; there was no mistaking it with cafeteria swill. “Musichetta’s your favorite customer. And what, you deliver now?”

“We just wanted to catch up. Chat. We haven’t done talked much recently. Just the three of us.” Musichetta said, edging a cookie towards Cosette.

Cosette cautiously took the cookie. “What is this? What’s happening?”

“Like we said, we wanted to chat with our good buddy, Cosette.”

She broke off a piece of the cookie and chewed it slowly, looking between them. The answer hit her suddenly, and she felt startled. After swallowing (because she had been raised to act like a lady) she squealed, “Did you two idiots finally sort yourselves out?”

“We’re dating,” Musichetta confirmed.

“You were holding back on me,” Cosette said. It wasn’t a question.

“We only _just_ started dating,” Musichetta said.

Cosette raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. There was more to the story, she could tell.

“I’ve had a _long_ day,” she said.

“Joly.”

“What about him?”

“We both like him.”

Cosette took another bite of the cookie. She had a feeling she was going to need the sugar boost. “How do you even know Joly?” she asked Bossuet.

“He was my boyfriend. Until recently.”

Cosette’s eyes widened. Musichetta noticed, and pounced.

“What do you know?”

“Nothing!” Cosette squeaked.

“Liar.”

“I know nothing.”

“Tell us!”

Cosette panicked and shoved the rest of the substantial cookie in her mouth. Both Musichetta and Bossuet watched her chew with narrowed eyes. (Musichetta was much more intimidating). Eventually, she had to swallow. Musichetta raised her eyebrow expectantly.

“I don’t know _much_ ,” Cosette amended. “I know he’s been sad lately.”

Bossuet looked horrified at this news, but Musichetta didn’t look surprised. Joly was one of the most cheerful people in the world, so when he was down, it was painfully obvious to anyone who knew him.

“And?” Musichetta prompted her.

Cosette huffed. She wished Musichetta and Bossuet could find Joly themselves, because she wasn’t really comfortable getting in the middle of this. “That’s it. He’s been sad. He was really sad last weekend.”

That was all Joly had really explicitly told Cosette, but she was smart enough and knew him well enough to guess more. And with Musichetta and Bossuet sitting in front of her, she could fill in a few more blanks.

“Can you elaborate at all?” Bossuet said hopefully.

Cosette was tired of this beating around the bush.

“Are you trying to ask me for relationship advice?” she asked bluntly.

Musichetta and Bossuet nodded fervently.

“I’m wanted to say bye,” came a quiet voice from the end of the table.

Random Protest Cutie was standing there. His face was still swollen, his eyes red, and he looked a bit shaken up. But he was also holding a fresh bouquet of flowers that he must have gotten from the gift shop. He handed them to Cosette.

“To replace the other ones. And to say I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I just didn’t know how to talk to you. I wasn’t thinking, and I’m sorry.”

“Wait,” Cosette stood up. “As a medical professional, I can’t in good conscience let you leave in that state. Sit with me?”

The boy turned tomato red, but nodded. He obediently sat in the only empty chair. Musichetta and Bossuet shot furtive looks at him. Cosette played with the ribbon on her bouquet thoughtfully.

“…who is this?” Bossuet said, finally breaking the silence.

“Oh. Right. This is Random Protest Cutie,” Cosette said. “I’m sorry, I never did catch your name.”

“Oh!” he looked mortified. “I’m so sorry- my name is Marius Pontmercy.”

She beamed. “And I’m Cosette. This is Bossuet and Musichetta.”

“Cosette,” he repeated reverently, and she liked the way her name looked on his lips.

“Random Protest Cutie? The guy you mentioned weeks ago?” Musichetta repeated incredulously.

“He was following me to the hospital, trying to give me flowers,” Cosette said. “But I thought he was some random person stalking me so I pepper sprayed him.”

Marius looked like he wanted to _die_. Cosette reflected for a second that he sort of was a random person stalking her, but for some reason, she didn’t feel scared.

“I should go…” Marius mumbled, trying to stand up, but Cosette reached out and grabbed his hand.

“Why were you trying to find me in the first place?”

She expected him to look away, but instead, he met her gaze with a look that was equal parts determined and gentle.

“Because I wanted to get to know you.”

For once, there wasn’t an ounce of embarrassment. There was just sweet and earnest sincerity. Cosette beamed.

“Bossuet, Musichetta, allow me to reintroduce Marius Pontmercy. We met at a rally very briefly, he tracked me down and I pepper sprayed him. And now he’s about to ask me out on a date.”

“I am? I mean, yes, I am. If that’s okay?”

“It’s more than okay,” Cosette said. She turned to Musichetta. “So do you still want me to give you relationship advice?”

“Sadly,” Musichetta sighed. “We are that desperate.”

Cosette hummed. Was it really a betrayal if Joly hadn’t explicitly told her anything and would benefit him in the long run?

“He likes you, Musichetta. It’s obvious. And Bossuet, he’s been miserable for the past few weeks, and I think your break up has something to do with it. Joly hasn’t really talked about his dating life with me, but I think if he has any hesitations, it’s because he has a problem with himself, not you.”

“That can’t be right,” Bossuet said, looking almost offended at the notion that anyone could find fault with Joly, even Joly himself.

Musichetta squinted at Cosette, like she was weighing her words, and saw the validity of them. “What do you think we should do?”  
“You need to talk to him,” Cosette said simply.

“He’s been avoiding me,” Musichetta said.

“Courfeyrac’s party,” Marius blurted out.

Everyone stopped and stared at him. He looked embarrassed to have so many sets of eyes on him.

“His party is next week,” Marius mumbled. “Courfeyrac mentioned he was inviting a Bossuet, which I assume must be you, because there can't be too many Bossuets running around the city. And Musichetta can come too, as your guest. Courfeyrac won’t mind. So all you have to do is convince him to invite Joly, who I think he knows, so it shouldn't be that hard.”

Cosette nodded decisively. “Good idea, Marius.” He practically glowed from the praise. She took only a second to admire how _adorable_ he was before she turned seriously to Musichetta and Bossuet. “Okay. When you get to the party, this is what you should say…”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so sorry this has taken forever. If I ever give an estimate for an update, double it. Or triple it. I've not been doing a good job of keeping track of time. 
> 
> The author would like to make it clear that agreeing to go on dates with random boys who follow you to your place of work is a very risky venture, and she does not encourage it. No matter how cute they are. 
> 
>  
> 
> [Come say hi](http://babesatthebarricade.tumblr.com/)


	8. We pick ourselves undone

"You really don't have to do this," Combeferre said, looking awkward already. Feuilly waved him off.

"It's no trouble. I need to practice before I teach the kids anyway."

They were seated in Feuilly's youth center, in one of the disused classrooms. Both of them seemed even ganglier than usual in the comically small chairs. Between them, on the short, round table were several packs of origami paper. Combeferre had noticed in one of his meetings with Feuilly the folded paper decorations in his office. He had asked Feuilly if he had any origami books he could recommend, and Feuilly had instead insisted on teaching Combeferre himself.

"I haven't done any crafts in years," Combeferre confessed, examining one of the paper squares in front of him curiously.

"You'll be fine," Feuilly said, waving his hand. "It's kind of relaxing once you get in the swing of things. And plus – good practice.”

Combeferre scrunched his brow as he tried to figure out what Feuilly meant.

“Dexterity practice. Don’t med students have to practice?”

“The surgical ones, maybe.”

“Well now you can keep up with them,” Feuilly shrugged, making Combeferre laugh. “So explain again what you’re trying to make?”

“A bouquet,” Combeferre said. “Do you know how to make more than one flower?”

“Do I know how to make more than one flower?” Feuilly said, feigning offense. “What do you take me for?”

He held up swatches of origami for Combeferre to choose from. After some careful deliberation, Combeferre pointed to a darker pack of paper – purples, blacks and dark blues with occasional gold or silver flecks for contrast. Feuilly set the paper of choice aside, and pushed forward printer paper he had cut into squares.

“Practice a few times first, then you can use the big boy paper,” Feuilly said.

Combeferre bit back a smile, and accepted the sheaf. His sharp eyes watched Feuilly’s practiced hands fold the paper into sharp creases. He slowed down the process, but Combeferre was a quick student, and within an hour, he had learned a handful of flower patterns, and was almost able to keep up with Feuilly. It was quite the feat, considering Feuilly had been teaching kids how to do these designs for years.

Once Combeferre was able to do flowers on his own without supervision, they fell into easy conversation. Feuilly found he very much enjoyed conversing with the med student. First, they talked about the gala, since it was the one thing they knew they had in common. But talk of the gala flowed into talk of charity, then art, then somehow Combeferre was making Feuilly cry with laughter by retelling a story of a protest he, Courfeyrac and Enjolras had attended a few years ago.

"So at this point, the rally was unsaveable, so we scattered. Courfeyrac gave his shirt to some guy who cut his hand on a bottle. Enjolras's shirt got caught on a fence, so he had to ditch it."

Feuilly held up his hand as he caught a glimpse of Grantaire in the hallway. "Wait a sec," he said to Combeferre. "R, in here!" 

Grantaire slinked in, but he stiffened when he noticed Combeferre seated next to Feuilly. He nodded jerkily to him, before focusing on Feuilly.

"Can you wait for a few minutes and help me move the class materials? Combeferre is just finishing a story."

Grantaire nodded slowly, and leaned against the wall, refusing to get comfortable. Feuilly looked curiously between the other two men.

"Er, right," Combeferre cleared his throat nervously. "Uh, so we were by the art building, trying to get back to our dorm, when campus security found us. I happened to have my camera with me because I was photographing the rally. So Courfeyrac starts talking out of his ass, and manages to convince the guard that we were doing a photo-shoot for a charity calendar, because why else would they both be shirtless."

"No," Feuilly breathed. 

"The guard was so enthusiastic about us raising money he insisted on watching the rest of the photo-shoot. Then he made us promise to tell him when the calendars were up for sale. So we ended up having to make an entire calendar," Combeferre said. He smirked. "We raised over $2000. And that security guard still emails me every year asking if we’re going to do another one."

"Please tell me you still have the pictures," Feuilly said, once his laughter subsided. He peaked at Grantaire, who wore a ghost of a smile, and was shaking his head. 

Combeferre puffed his chest indignantly. "Do I still have copies of my friends participating in an embarrassing photo-shoot? What kind of friend do you think I am?"

"Er-" 

"Give me your email, and I'll send them over tonight."

Feuilly grinned. “Do you think Enjolras will kill us or just maim?”

“He likes you too much to do either. Both of you,” Combeferre said. “That is he likes both of you. So no maiming or murdering.”

Feuilly blinked. He was missing something. Combeferre was usually slightly more eloquent than that. Not to mention he was looking at Grantaire earnestly, but the cynic was determinedly avoiding his gaze. He decided to poke.

“Haven’t seen him in a while,” Feuilly said, carefully keeping his voice playful. “He hasn’t abandoned us for some other cause, has he?”

“Of course not. He’s just, you know, wrapping up the semester. He’ll probably be around soon.”

“Well, whenever he stops by, he should check out some of our programs, like the art class. What do you think, R?”

“I think we should leave and set up for the art class.” Grantaire mumbled, grabbing several rolls of paper. “Can’t keep the kids waiting.”

“We have a whole hour to set up.”

“Okay, well you can sit there if you like,” Grantaire said, kicking the door open seeing as his hands were too full to use. “I’m going to go now.”

Feuilly tried not to wince when the door slammed shut.

“What the hell was that all about? Are you guys fighting?”

“No,” Combeferre said. “I’m just on his avoid list by association.”

“Association with….?”

“You’d have to ask him. It’s not really my place to discuss,” Combeferre said quietly. “I should probably go.”

He gathered the flowers he made and put them into a paper bag, taking great care not to crinkle any of them.

“Thanks for the lessons. I’ll bring some origami by next time,” Combeferre said, offering a small smile.

Feuilly could only nod and wonder what he was missing.

Combeferre turned towards the door and bumped straight into R, who leapt back like he was scalded. He was pressed against the wall, as far away from Combeferre as possible.

“See you later then,” Combeferre managed a polite smile. Grantaire nodded jerkily, still avoiding Combeferre’s eyes. Combeferre took in a deep breath, like he was about to say something, and Grantaire tensed. Combeferre shut his mouth, awkwardly patted Grantaire’s shoulder, then slipped away.

“Are _you_ going to tell me what’s going on?” Feuilly asked.

He received a dirty look and another slammed door in response.

“That’s what I thought,” Feuilly sighed, and grabbed some paint brushes.

 

***

 

Courfeyrac sighed to himself. He was seated at the Musain with Enjolras, where they were supposed to be hammering out the details of the charity gala. But Enjolras's mind was clearly on something else.

"Combeferre is going to email us updates from his meeting with Feuilly.”

“Mmmm,” Enjolras hummed noncommittally. His long fingers fiddled with his phone.

“Although we’re thinking of changing who gets the proceeds of the gala,” Courfeyrac continued. “And starting a nonprofit that will give much deserved vacations to various politicians.”

“Sure.”

“And I’ve decided to shave your head to raise money. Not for charity. Just for my personal use. And I’m going to turn your hair into a wig. That will also be for my personal use.”

Enjolras nodded distractedly, scanning the room for what felt like the hundredth time in the past five minutes. “I trust you guys.”

Courfeyrac finally took pity on him.   

“He’s not here,” Courfeyrac said gently.

“Hmm?”

“Grantaire,” At the sound of the cynic’s name, Enjolras’s attention finally snapped back to Courfeyrac, and he appeared to actually be listening to what he was saying. “He’s not here.”

“Oh,” Enjolras frowned. “I think that’s the first time I can ever remember coming here and him not being here.”

Courfeyrac sighed. It had been three days since Enjolras and Grantaire’s disastrous non-date. Enjolras had come back to his apartment, dejected, where Courfeyrac and Combeferre were waiting. He explained that he had somehow offended Grantaire, but he wasn’t sure how. It only took a brief recap before Combeferre and Courfeyrac had figure out exactly what had upset Grantaire so. They agreed it wasn’t their place to enlighten Enjolras, so now they were stuck taking turns babysitting a mopey, frustrated Enjolras.

“He’s probably busy,” Courfeyrac said.

Enjolras frowned, and yeah, Courfeyrac hadn’t expected him to believe that transparent excuse.

“I just want to know what I did wrong,” Enjolras said. “If I don’t know, how can I make sure I don’t do it again? Why won’t he let me talk to him and fix this?”

Courfeyrac winced. “First of all, you need to stop saying you want to fix anything. He’s going to think you think he’s a project.”

“That’s what he said,” Enjolras muttered to himself.

“Yeah, so, you know. Stop that.” Courfeyrac said.

Enjolras glared at him. Misery had dampened some of the usual fire in his eyes.

Courfeyrac sighed loudly. “Can you please just talk to him?”

“He hasn’t responded to my texts, or taken my calls,” Enjolras said. “Clearly he doesn’t _want_ to talk to me.”

“Look, he already promised he’d come to my birthday party. So I’ll make sure he sticks to that, and when he gets there, casually ask for a word. _Casually_ , okay? Don’t scare him away.”

Enjolras nodded solemnly.

“Did I heard talk of a birthday party?” Bossuet, accompanied by a beautiful woman who definitely didn’t work at the Musain stood at the end of their table, with a tray of fresh cookies and a steaming pot of coffee.

“Yes. You’re still coming, right?” Courfeyrac said to Bossuet, only somewhat thrown off by his sudden appearance.

“Absolutely. By the way, this is my girlfriend, Musichetta,” Bossuet gestured to the woman.

“Nice to meet you,” Courfeyrac pushed a chair out for her to sit in.

“Likewise.” She set the coffee pot down and started pouring them all some.

“You’re welcome too, of course. Friday. Enjolras’s apartment.”

Enjolras waved stiffly, clearly still preoccupied.

“Although, I’m a little disappointed it’s not a surprise party.”

“You didn’t give us the chance to plan a surprise party,” Enjolras said, rolling his eyes. “You always start planning your birthday at least six months in advance because you’re afraid we’ll do it wrong.”

“Which you, as one of my best friends should have anticipated.”

“I’d love to go,” Musichetta said.

“Speaking of guests,” Bossuet held the cookie plate just out of Courfeyrac’s reach. “Can you invite one more person?”

Courfeyrac blinked at him. “Are you trying to _bribe_ me?”

“No.” The cookies remained where they were.

Bossuet looked at Courfeyrac expectantly. And because he was stubborn, Courfeyrac looked back with feigned innocence.

“Your roommate Marius already said we could!” Bossuet blurted out. There was a thud under the table. Judging from the way Bossuet winced and the wounded way he looked at Musichetta, she had probably kicked him.

“Yes, you can invite your other guest,” Courfeyrac said, reaching out for a cookie.

Bossuet happily brought the plate to the center of the table. “Great. His name is Joly.”

Courfeyrac snorted, and swiped another cookie. “He’s already coming. Because I invited him. Like over a week ago.”

“Oh.” Bossuet at least had the decency to look embarrassed. “Well, try not to mention Musichetta and I will be there, okay?”

Courfeyrac looked between the two of them carefully. Musichetta arched an eyebrow at him, almost daring him to prod.

“Fine. But only because Marius seems to know whatever you two are planning, and thinks it’s okay.” Courfeyrac said.

“Is your boyfriend going?” Musichetta asked Enjolras politely.

Enjolras tilted his head. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“Oh, I just saw you a few times here with another guy. Brunette? You looked friendly, and I just thought…Sorry. My mistake,” Musichetta’s cheeks flushed.

“Grantaire and I are not a couple, have never been a couple, and will never be a couple. People have _got_ to stop assuming that!” Enjolras said, his voice growing louder and louder.

“Oh my god, you have to stop talking,” Courfeyrac said, glad, for the first time that day that Grantaire wasn’t at the Musain.

“But that’s why he’s avoiding me!” Enjolras insisted. “He’s freaked out people think-”

“For the love of Beyoncé, I beg of you, please stop talking until you ask Grantaire what’s wrong. And even then, you should probably be quiet and process whatever he says before you start speaking.”

“But-”

“No,” Courfeyrac said, unusually severe. “Shh. This is the time for inner reflection.”

Enjolras looked like he had a few things to say about being shushed, but Musichetta silently slid him a cookie. He accepted it, though he still looked pouty.

“Great,” Bossuet said. “Now I’d like to go over how we’re going to Jol-ify your party.”

“Do what?”

“Make this party Joly friendly.”

“You do know it’s _my_ birthday party,” Courfeyrac said amusedly.

“It’s for _love_ ,” Bossuet said desperately. Courfeyrac quickly looked at Musichetta, almost afraid of her reaction to the news that her current boyfriend was trying to woo his ex-boyfriend. But she just nodded and nonchalantly sipped her coffee, and wow, Courfeyrac was going to have to interrogate Bossuet later to find out exactly what was happening. But in the meantime….

“Fine. Tell me how to Jol-ify this party.”

 

***

 

There was nothing quite like a good show, Jehan thought, his fingers flying over his guitar. They had a gig the next day, at another bar, but today, he, Bahorel and Bossuet were playing at the Musain again. The regular Musain goers had become loyal fans, and it was a boost to their egos to see so many people there cheering them on. But after Combeferre slipped in, Jehan barely noticed anything else. He had eyes only for the med student, who for some reason sat discreetly in the back.

Combeferre was an attentive listener, unconsciously tapping his fingers to the beat of the songs. He was watching Jehan again, a small smile playing at his lips. The few times Jehan caught his eye, he tore his gaze away, because he could easily get lost in Combeferre’s eyes and would then would inevitably fuck up. So avoiding Combeferre’s eyes while playing was recommended. When he was done playing however….

He wasn’t _careless_ when packing away his equipment, but it wasn’t the most carefully he had ever packed up either. But he was a professional. He wasn’t rushing – he was just very efficient at stowing away his guitar…okay. So he was rushing a little bit. And so what if he left Bossuet and Bahorel to pack away the electronic equipment. They had both abandoned strike duty before to slip off with their significant other. Or sometimes in Bahorel’s case because he was feeling particularly lazy.

 “Hey.”

Jehan beamed at Combeferre, who had extricated himself from the corner booth he had tucked himself away in and made himself to Jehan.

“What were you doing all the way back there?” Jehan asked, giving Combeferre a peck on the cheek in greeting. (He wondered if that was too forward – they had only seen each other a few times after their first date. But they had texted every day since. So maybe a kiss on the cheek was too formal.)

“I didn’t want to distract you,” Combeferre said.

“You’re not a distraction,” Jehan lied. In all honesty, Combeferre was a distraction, even if they weren’t in the same room. Or the same building. In a very short time, Combeferre had saturated Jehan’s thoughts and had driven the poet into a state of constant distraction.

It was a familiar dance for Jehan. He got emotionally invested far too easily. He became infatuated with someone, and they broke his heart. Sometimes it was because they were just looking for someone to warm their bed for a few nights. Or they cheated. Or Jehan scared them away with his intensity. It didn’t matter the reason – the result was always the same. Jehan was good at choosing people who were bad for him. He had dozens of songs written in alcohol and recreational drug -induced angst sessions to prove his track record.

And yet here was Combeferre, reaching into a paper bag and pulling out a bouquet of beautiful origami flowers.

“What’s this?” Jehan asked accepting them. They were stunning. He had never seen a bouquet quite like this.

“For luck. For your gig tomorrow,” Combeferre said shyly. “I’m sorry I can’t go-”

“No, you have a shift. I understand,” Jehan said because for God’s sake, he was dating a _doctor_. Or future doctor. Either way, Combeferre was worlds apart from Jehan’s usual type. Namely addicts or petty criminals. There was memorable incident when Jehan accidently dated a more major criminal, but he tried to avoid thinking about that one. He still got the occasional letter from his ex who would be behind bars for the foreseeable future.

He squinted at a few of the white flowers that accented the bouquet. They had some kind of black scrawl on them. “Is that writing?”

Combeferre blushed, and it was unfair how cute that was. “Yeah. I sort of wrote down some poems from the book you recommended? It’s stupid, I mean you can barely even read it.”

Jehan’s heart fluttered. “No, that’s…that’s really sweet. It must have taken forever.”

“It didn’t,” Combeferre said quickly, and Jehan was going to call bullshit. “I just thought, real flowers don’t last that long, especially since it’s winter, so these might be better.”

“I love them,” Jehan said.

Combeferre’s face broke into a relieved smile. “Good. I just felt like an awful boyfr- I mean, awful person, not being able to go to your concert.”

He was still smiling, but the blush was back. He peeked at Jehan, like he was checking if him almost calling himself Jehan’s boyfriend freaked him out. And it kind of did. 

Jehan didn't really do relationships. He had flings. He had trysts. He hooked up. He liked the rush of excitement that came at the beginning stages of a relationship. But he rarely progressed past that. For a lot of reasons.

Combeferre was different. He was steady and safe, and that terrified Jehan. Jehan was falling fast, like he always did. This time though, there was a real possibility that this wouldn’t crash and burn. This time, there was a real possibility that it was more than just mere infatuation.

“I told you, it’s fine. I understand,” Jehan said, skating past the issue altogether. They could talk about what exactly they were another time, when Jehan could focus and not be sidelined by thoughtful gestures.

“Well, let me make it up to you anyway,” Combeferre said.

“What did you have in mind?”

What Combeferre had in mind was coffee and dessert at a small café and a stroll along the Seine. It was a quiet, chilly evening, and it was perfect. It was just the sort of thing Jehan liked to do, usually by himself. But in this case, he found he didn’t mind the company. It was an odd feeling, since Jehan was usually a solitary creature and liked taking long walks at night alone.

They were holding hands, though Jehan couldn’t remember who had initiated the contact. He liked the way his hand fit in Combeferre’s, and he had the startling thought that he could get used to this. And that was a bit of a problem. Because he was sure Combeferre was good at relationships. Combeferre was good at everything, it seemed. So that meant _Jehan_ would be the one to inevitably fuck things up, and holy shit, he had never been so afraid of a relationship ending before. He had never had to worry about being the one to destroy a relationship before, since his exes always took care of that part. _Someone_ was going to mess up this relationship, and Jehan knew that it would be him.

“Are you okay?” Combeferre glanced at him. His eyes were full of concern. Could he really read Jehan so well so quickly?

“Fine,” Jehan assured him with a grin.

Combeferre nodded, although he didn’t seem convinced. But he let it go, choosing instead to point out the architecture of several nearby buildings. His voice fell into a soothing lull as he detailed the history, and Jehan calmed. Combeferre wasn’t his boyfriend, but that was okay. It meant he was less likely to sabotage whatever _this_ was. And that was good, because he really liked what they had. So he snuggled into Combeferre’s arm and savored the moment, not thinking about the future. What they had now was enough.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the gap between updates. I feel like I'm always saying that. But here you go! Next time, we'll actually get to see the birthday party. Or at least part of it, since a lot of stuff is going to happen (maniacal laughing), and I might need to break it up into two. 
> 
> [Come say hi](http://babesatthebarricade.tumblr.com/)


	9. See the Despair Behind Their Eyes

Enjolras stood in the corner of the kitchen, trying his best not to look sour. Courfeyrac’s party had finally arrived, and it was in full swing. He was always happy to help Courfeyrac, but he wished that the party wasn’t being held at his and Combeferre’s apartment. He wasn’t in a partying mood, which to be fair, wasn’t unusual. But usually the reason he avoided such festivities was he wanted to get on with his activist work, or a new pet project. Tonight though, he wanted to curl up on his bed and sulk. Because Grantaire was still avoiding him, and he still didn’t know what he did wrong.

All he knew was that he missed Grantaire. A lot. He missed randomly bumping into Grantaire at the Musain. He missed his sarcastic comments. And he missed dance lessons. It upset him that Grantaire refused to talk to him, because that meant Grantaire didn’t miss  _him_ , and that upset Enjolras more than it should.

Grantaire was supposed to come to the party. Courfeyrac had assured Enjolras Grantaire would be there, and Enjolras believed him. Courfeyrac had a ridiculous puppy face that he used shamelessly to get his friends to come to social events. Really, the only reasons Enjolras had emerged from his room was he wanted to avoid Courfeyrac’s kicked-puppy face, and the chance he might have a word with Grantaire.

Yet Grantaire was nowhere to be found.  Enjolras knew he was there- he had heard Courfeyrac loudly greet him in the hallway and had _seen_ Grantaire. Grantaire saw Enjolras seeing him, widened his eyes in panic, then melted away into the crowd. If he weren’t so frustrated, Enjolras might be a little impressed. Not only did Grantaire disappear, but he managed to stay hidden. Enjolras could understand if Grantaire didn’t want to be friends with him- he could be a difficult person to be friends with. But he wanted at least the chance to apologize to Grantaire, and if possible, make amends. Because he liked Grantaire, and he liked spending time with him, and things had been going so well, until all of the sudden, they weren’t.

Enjolras tried his best to enjoy the party. It’s what Courfeyrac would want, and it wasn’t like Grantaire was the only person at the party Enjolras wanted to talk to. The party had a mix of people he was friends with, people he was vaguely friends with but wanted to know better, and strangers, but strangers who were already friends with Courfeyrac, so he was fairly sure they’d get along. Still, any time he caught a green hoodie or dark, curly hair out of the corner of his eye, he’d instantly crane his neck to see if it was Grantaire.

 He excused himself from a conversation with Bahorel and his girlfriend. It had been a good conversation (they were discussing the possibility of Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac helping plan a charity concert in the spring), but he was _positive_ he had seen Grantaire. So he made sure they had his phone number, before heading towards the spot where he saw Grantaire. The spot which turned out to be his and Combeferre’s coat closet.

“Enjolras,” Combeferre said, suddenly by his side.

“I’ve been socializing!” Enjolras said defensively. (Combeferre had a sixth sense when Enjolras was being antisocial at parties, and was always able to find and reprimand him).

“I know, I was just looking for Jehan, and wondered if you had seen him,” Combeferre said.

“I was looking for Grantaire,” Enjolras said, jerking his head to the closet.

“Normal don't people hide in closets,” Combeferre said, quirking his eyebrows.

Enjolras felt defensive. He was _not_ the only adult who hid in closets at parties, and he was going to prove it to Combeferre. He grabbed the doorknob, and turned it.

What they saw wasn’t what either of them was expecting.

 

***

 

Joly had to get out of there. He had to get out of there right now. His ex-boyfriend, who he was still in love with, and his co-worker, who he was also a little in love with, were both at the same party as him. They were together, and for some inexplicable reason, they both seemed to  _really_  want to talk to him.

Joly had arrived late to the party. He had a long shift, and hadn’t had a proper break, since he had avoided the break room for fear of running into Musichetta. So he had been looking forward to unwinding just a little bit. He was sure Courfeyrac knew how to throw a good party.

Upon arriving, he saw his hypothesis was right: Courfeyrac’s party wasn’t just good, it was awesome. It was almost perfect, really. The music was at that elusive perfect party volume- loud enough so people could dance, but quiet enough so you could have a conversation. And the song choices were all spot on. There was also, inexplicably a large pillow/blanket fort that was for some reason off limits to all but Courfeyrac.

And the food- not only was it delicious. But each food item was separated, so they weren’t touching (it was important, to avoid cross-contamination) and the ingredients clearly labeled. Which was nice, because Joly had more than once eaten something, only to be afraid minutes later that the food contained something he was allergic to and he was having a reaction to it.

“Joly!” Musichetta said, cheerfully, appearing at his side. “I tried to talk to you earlier, but you disappeared.”

“Oh. Was that you?” Joly said, setting down his plate of food so he would be better prepared to bolt if need be.

“It was,” Musichetta said, looking amused. “I thought you knew, since you looked right at me. Anyway, I haven’t seen you that much around the hospital lately.”

That may or may not have been because Joly was trading a lot of shifts with other interns- giving up his more desirable slots and taking the graveyard ones he knew Musichetta didn’t work. That, and he knew the hospital way better than she did, so he knew all the good hiding places.

“Huh,” Joly said. “Probably because it’s flu season, and we’re both just so busy.”

“Must be,” she said.

“Well, I still haven’t said hi to Courfeyrac yet,” Joly said. “So I’m going to…”

He trailed off, backed off, waving awkwardly. And of course, he bumped into Bossuet.

“Joly!” he said, his face lighting up. “We didn’t get a chance to talk earlier this evening.”

“Maybe later? I have to find Courfeyrac.” Joly blurted out before Bossuet could say anything else. And he did. He had to find Courfeyrac so he could wish him a happy birthday, then get the hell out of there, because Bossuet and Musichetta had both managed to corner him three times each, and he couldn’t keep dodging them like this. He spotted Courfeyrac on the other side of the room, when he suddenly felt dizzy. He hadn’t had anything to drink yet, so it couldn’t be drunkenness. He hadn’t eaten anything all day, he realized. But what if the sudden vertigo was something more serious than that, and he was about to write it off as just being hungry? What if he had anemia, or Meniere’s disease? Now the dizziness was getting worse, and he was suddenly very hot, and his chest was tight, and that was a lot of symptoms he had to now take into account.

Someone’s hand was suddenly on his elbow, and he was guided through the crowds of people, and the next thing he knew, he lying down, staring up at a cloth ceiling. Huh.

“How are you feeling?” Musichetta said from his side.

Joly sat up. “Confused.”

Musichetta handed him the plate of food he had abandoned earlier. “Eat.”

He obliged, and noticed Bossuet sitting on his other side, looking at him with great concern. “Where exactly am I?”

“Pillow fort,” Bossuet said, looking proud.

“The fort in the corner of the party room? The fort that has a sign on it that says it’s off limits to everyone but the birthday boy?” Joly said. Make no mistake, he loved forts, but he was all about respecting the wishes of a birthday person.

“Relax,” Musichetta said. “We asked Courfeyrac to make a special fort area, and just to say it was off limits.”

“Why?” Joly said.

“In case we needed a quiet place,” Bossuet said. Joly wasn’t fooled. They did it for him. They did it because they knew he was a wreck and would break down.

“Thank you for taking care of me,” he said, trying to sit up. “I think I’ll be fine now. I should go, actually.”

“Wait a minute,” Musichetta said. “We wanted to talk to you.”

Joly swallowed. He could deflect, but he was finding them both to be relentless, and he figured they might as well get this conversation over now. They were going to try and make peace with him and ask him if they could be friends. He would say yes, of course, but he wasn’t sure he could handle this conversation.

“What’s up?” Joly said, trying to force a smile.

“We were wondering if you would like to go to dinner with us. Like, a date,” Musichetta said, looking straight at Joly.

That wasn’t what he was expecting. At all. “….what?”

“Would you like to go on a date? With Bossuet and me,” she repeated.

“But…what? Why?”

“Because we like you. And Musichetta thinks,” Bossuet said, but was interrupted by Musichetta elbowing him hard in the ribs. “ _We_ think that you maybe like us back.”

Joly was completely floored. He wasn’t good enough to date one of them, let alone both of them. “I’m confused. Actually, I think you’re both confused. You don’t want to date me.”

“I’m pretty sure we do,” Bossuet said.

“No, you don’t!” Joly said, growing agitated, because Bossuet and Musichetta were both smiling at him softly, like they _liked_ him, and they actually wanted to date him, and it was too much.

“Give us some credit for knowing how we feel,” Musichetta said.

“I’m a mess,” Joly continued. “I’m fine sometimes, and maybe someday I’ll be completely fine, but I doubt it, and no one should be stuck dealing with that.”

“We all have baggage,” Musichetta said.

Joly jerked his head, because they didn’t have baggage, not like this.

“We both really like you,” Bossuet said. “We like thinking about you and doing things for you.”

Things, plural. If Bossuet and Musichetta were responsible for the fort, Joly suddenly wondered what other wonderful things at the party they were responsible for.

“And it’s not because we’re trying to be nice. It’s because we genuinely like you. I’ve dated you, and I’ve not dated you, and I have to say, I much prefer it when I’m dating you,” Bossuet said.

“You’ll change your mind,” Joly mumbled.

“Isn’t that a risk with any relationship?” Musichetta said, slipping her hand over Joly’s. “Look, if you don’t to date us because you don’t like us, we’ll back off. But if not…consider it.”

“Maybe…” Joly felt his resolve crumbling, and he was so weak. “I just don’t think it’s fair that you’ll have to take care of me all the time.”

Bossuet put his hand over Joly’s free one. “We’ll take care of each other. You can send me funny cat pictures again. Or make me tea, which, seriously, your tea is the best tea in the world, which isn’t fair because _I’m_ a barista. Or you could cuddle me when I have a bad day…”

“Or quiz me for exams,” Musichetta said. “Or buy me lunch when the lines in the cafeteria are too long…”

“Okay,” Joly said quietly.

“Okay?” Bossuet repeated, looking delighted.

“Yes,” Joly said.

Musichetta and Bossuet leaned in, and kissed one of his cheeks. The smiles on their faces temporarily dispelled any and all doubts he had that this was the wrong decision. How could it be, when they were so happy?

 

***

 

Grantaire was on an impossible mission: trying to avoid Enjolras, who was dead set on talking to him. He already knew what Enjolras would say. Enjolras would undoubtedly try and apologize again, and try to find out exactly how he had hurt Grantaire’s feelings. And he would do it all with that earnest expression of his, and then Grantaire would be very tempted to do something stupid like tell Enjolras he was in love with him. He got that urge often actually, but this time he might actually act on it. But if he did, it probably wouldn’t be the tender confession he sometimes fantasized about. He imagined it would be more along the lines of him grabbing Enjolras’s face with both his hands, looking him dead in the eye, and screaming, “I. Am. In. Love. With. You. You. Moron.”

Somehow, he didn’t think such a confession would go over well. So he was doing what any sane man would do: He hid.

It wasn’t the most inspired hiding place, he had to admit. But he had seen a blond head of hair through the crowd coming closer, panicked, and ducked into the closest closet. And he wasn’t the only one hiding, because as soon as he shut the closet door behind him, he realized there was someone else in there.

“Er…hi,” said his fellow closet companion.

Grantaire squinted at him. He vaguely remembered him as being in Bossuet’s band. “Hi.”

“Grantaire, right?” the man said. “I’m Jehan.”

“Nice to meet you,” Grantaire said.

“So what brings you to this fine closet today?”

“Oh. Uh, hiding from a man I’m madly in love with. You?”

“Same,” Jehan said. He grimaced. “I wish we could smoke in here.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire sighed.

The sounds of the party were muffled and they stood in comfortable silence for a few minutes. Jehan began fiddling with the rings on his fingers.

“Have you ever had something really good, but you were so afraid of losing it that you couldn’t enjoy it?”

Grantaire thought about it. “When I have something good, yeah.”

Jehan shifted so he could get a better look at Grantaire. Their eyes met, and Grantaire had the strangest feeling that he had just found a kindred spirit. The corner of Jehan’s lip curled up in a half-attempt of a smile before he leaned in slowly, giving Grantaire enough time to back away if he wanted to. Grantaire didn’t.

He found himself leaning in too. Their lips met, and it was a chaste kiss. At first. It didn’t take long for them to deepen the kiss – exploring each other’s mouths hungrily.  A kiss, Grantaire reflected, could convey a lot. In this case, a kiss conveyed a lot more than words could. This kiss was not romantic in the slightest. Not for Grantaire, and although he didn’t say anything, Grantaire knew it wasn’t for Jehan either. This kiss wasn’t about expressing love. It was about being close to another human being, one that was also a mess. It was about saying,  _I’m a little fucked up, you’re a little fucked up, but maybe if we’re fucked up together, we can be okay_.

Of course, that was wrong, because a shaft of light hit Grantaire’s face. He opened his eyes, and saw of course, someone was standing in the doorway. Two someone’s rather: Enjolras and Combeferre.

 For a moment, no one spoke, but both Combeferre and Jehan flushed.

“I um…I should go see if Courfeyrac needs any help,” Combeferre muttered.

“Wait!” Jehan said, scrambling after him.

“Combeferre?” looking concerned, Enjolras hurried after the duo, pausing only long enough to shoot Grantaire a particularly nasty look.

Grantaire stood alone in the closet for a few seconds. “Aw hell,” he said, following the others. If they were about to have it out, he felt he had to be there, since he had played a part in whatever drama was about to unfold.

He found the trio standing on the balcony - the only place in the apartment that afforded any privacy, since no one in their right minds would go out into the freezing night. Grantaire zipped up his jacket and braced himself. When he wedged himself onto the small, already crowded balcony, he wasn’t greeted with the screaming match he had half-expected. It was much more awkward, with the three men standing around. In one synchronized movement, they looked at Grantaire when he came through. Now Grantaire  _wished_ it were a screaming match, because then it would probably be much less uncomfortable.

“Bit nippy out,” Grantaire finally said, when it became clear no one else was going to break the silence.

At last, this seemed to spur Jehan into breaking his staring contest with the side of Combeferre’s face.

“Combeferre,” he said pleadingly. “It didn’t mean anything.”

“It really didn’t,” Grantaire said.

Enjolras huffed loudly, and looked skyward, as if the heavens might offer him patience.

“I’m sorry, did you want to say something?” Grantaire said.

“Why, are you willing to listen to me?” Enjolras snapped.

He turned to look at Grantaire, and Grantaire remembered this was the first time they had spoken since the disastrous night at the restaurant. He looked less guilty than he had earlier in the evening, and the fire in his eyes was back. That probably had a lot to do with the fact that he had just caught Grantaire kissing his best friend’s….whatever Jehan was to Combeferre.

“Can you please say something?” Jehan pleaded to Combeferre.

Combeferre adjusted his glasses. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

Jehan threw his arms up in the air. “Anything,” he folded his arms defensively. “I know you’re mad, but-”

“I’m not mad,” Combeferre interrupted quietly. Jehan raised a disbelieving eyebrow. “I’m  _not_. We never said we were exclusive, so you didn’t do anything wrong, and I’m not mad.”

No, Grantaire thought. It was worse. He was  _hurt_. Jehan apparently reached the same conclusion, because his face crumbled for a second, before he forced it into something a little more neutral.

“I was just…surprised,” Combeferre decided. “I just need a minute. You guys should go back inside. It’s cold out here.”

No one moved an inch. Enjolras stood looking defiant, and a little confused, like he was ready to fight for his best friend, but he wasn’t sure who he should fight or how. Jehan looked miserable, and Grantaire couldn’t be the only asshole to leave this disaster.

“We should talk,” Jehan pleaded.

Combeferre nodded. “If you think we should.”

There was more silence as everyone waited for Combeferre to organize his thoughts. He took a deep breath and turned to Jehan. 

“We haven’t been seeing each other for long, but I like you a lot,” he said. “I haven’t been in many relationships, but I think we could have something special.”

“Would you…like want to do an exclusive relationship?” Jehan asked hesitantly.

 “Yes,” Combeferre said. “Absolutely.”

The smile that was breaking out on his face was stopped by what Jehan said next.

“That sounds serious, and I don’t really do serious relationships.”

“And I don’t know how to do casual ones,” Combeferre replied, his smile disappearing before it had even fully formed.

 Grantaire wondered if Jehan was aware of the impossible situation he had put Combeferre in. Grantaire was so used to self-sabatoging himself that he usually recognized it when he did it himself. (That didn’t mean he stopped himself, he was just aware that he was doing it.) It was even easier to recognize in other people. Not everyone else was aware when they were wrecking their own happiness and so Grantaire wanted to know if Jehan knew he was pushing away the man he had moments ago proclaimed to love.

Jehan had maneuvered Combeferre into admitting he wanted more before instantly demurring. Grantaire knew Combeferre was methodical. He was cautious. Without Jehan’s prompting, he doubted Combeferre would have said he wanted to be exclusive this early in a relationship. But now that it was out there, he couldn’t take it back, and there really was only one thing to do.   
“I guess we want different things,” Jehan said.

“I guess we do.”

Combeferre smiled. It was a brave smile – not a happy one. It was his attempt to hide his hurt and alleviate Jehan’s guilt. And it was failing miserably, and it was so obvious that Combeferre was trying  _really hard_  to keep it together and it made it that much worse.

“Maybe we can be friends,” Combeferre added.

“ _What?_ ” Enjolras said, sounding equal parts confused and outraged on his friend’s behalf.

“Enjolras,” Combeferre said in a warning voice.

“But…” Combeferre silenced Enjolras with a quick jerk of his head. Enjolras clamped his lips together, but he did not look happy about it.

“I’m going to see if Courfeyrac needs anything,” Combeferre announced to no one in particular.

“I think I’m going to go home,” Jehan muttered, seconds after the door slipped shut behind Combeferre. “Early rehearsal tomorrow.”

And so Grantaire was left alone with Enjolras. Which was not a situation he wanted at all. Fuck. He was about to make his excuses and bail, but Enjolras fixed him with a steely look, and he was powerless to leave. Were they going to have the long-dreaded talk about Grantaire and his feelings and what happened that night at the café?

“Why did you do that?” Enjolras said, looking almost angry. “Why did you kiss Jehan?”

Grantaire let out a puff of air he hadn’t been aware he was holding in.

“I don’t know why you’re fixated on that.”

Enjolras folded his arms. “Because now Combeferre is upset.”

“Jesus fucking Christ. There you go again!”

“There I go again doing  _what_?”

“Trying to fix everything. You just can’t help yourself, can you? It’s fucking exhausting.”

A crease appeared on Enjolras’s forehead. “I don’t see how trying to make my best friend feel better is a bad thing. And I wouldn’t have to  _fix_  anything if you hadn’t kissed Jehan.”

“One, we kissed each other. Two, I didn’t know he and Combeferre had a thing. And three, they said so themselves- they aren’t in an exclusive relationship. They got over it, so maybe you should too.”

Enjolras took a step forward. “They didn’t  _get over it_. They’re upset. You’re upset. So no, I’m not going to get over it.”

“Why do you even care?”

“Because you’re my friends and I don’t want any of you to be upset.”

Grantaire laughed mirthlessly. “You and I aren’t friends.”

“I thought we were trying to be,” Enjolras said, having the nerve to look hurt.

And Grantaire couldn’t do this. He just couldn’t. He wanted Enjolras to be angry again, because that, he could deal with. He was excellent at dealing with angry Enjolras. Enjolras  _should_  be angry at the man who had just kissed his best friend’s boyfriend. Angry Enjolras was the one he wanted to talk to. He couldn’t handle Enjolras when he was hurt or when he was trying to connect with Grantaire. It was too different from their norm, and he didn’t want it. So he did what he did best.

“We aren’t friends,” he repeated.

It was the wrong thing to say, and Grantaire knew it was the wrong thing to say. He knew what he was about to say was even worse, but he couldn’t stop himself. He was incapable of stopping himself from ruining the tentative good will he and Enjolras had built. And maybe a little part of him wanted to ruin it because he’d rather have passionate screaming matches with Enjolras than a hesitant friendship where they had to tiptoe around each other.

“You don’t have friends. You probably don’t even know how to have friends. You have lieutenants who do your bidding in your insane mission to fix everyone and everything. Well I don’t want your help. Combeferre doesn’t want your help. No one does, but you’ve deluded yourself into thinking you’re being a good person when really, you just want to pat yourself on the back.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Even as the words were leaving his mouth, Grantaire knew he had gone too far, cut too deep. But he couldn’t stop himself. He had an almost compulsive need to mess up anything good in his life, because at least he was destroying it on his own terms. Enjolras stiffened.

“Fine. I won’t bother you any more with trying to recruit you for my causes, or whatever it is you think I spend my time doing. You’re not much good to my causes, so I guess that means you’re not of much use to me. Let’s stop wasting each other’s time.”

Enjolras’s expression was blank, and that wasn’t right. He wore his heart on his sleeve, and his face usually conveyed every little thought, every fleeting emotion. If he was putting this much effort into not showing his true feelings, then Grantaire had really hurt him.

He should apologize. But Enjolras was already stalking past him to back to the party. He slammed the door behind him. It seemed like things were back to normal between them. Great.

 

***

 

Courfeyrac had never hosted a birthday party that did not involve some sort of spectacular dramatics. It started with his fifth birthday party when the magician yelled at Combeferre for correctly guessing how he performed all his tricks. Enjolras took issue with this and yelled back. It had culminated with a five hour long search party after Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac had hidden in one of the magician’s trick boxes and freed all the magician’s rabbits. His parties hadn’t really gotten any less dramatic since.

But this year.  _This_ year he was turning 22, and he was sure it would be fine. He had suffered through 17 years of exhausting birthday parties, and he was sure this year, he could just sit back and enjoy a fun party with his friends.

He was so, so wrong.  

The evening had started out alright. He and Marius had showed up several hours early to Combeferre and Enjolras’s apartment to decorate. Marius was still on a happy high after finding Cosette, and was especially enthusiastic in party preparations for three reasons. One, he was bringing Cosette, and wanted her evening to be perfect. Two, he knew of Bossuet and Musichetta’s plan to woo Joly, and romantic that he was, he wanted to help other people find love. And third, as he wrote in Courfeyrac’s birthday card, Courfeyrac was his best friend and he deserved the best party ever. Enjolras and Combeferre chipped in, and by the end of it, even seemed to be having fun.

Then the guests arrived. Eponine had shocked him by showing up. They had only met a few times face to face, and was usually Marius-mediated. Courfeyrac had the impression she didn’t like him that much. But he got the impression she didn’t like many people that much, so he didn’t take offense.

 “Here,” she said as she slouched in, shoving a bottle of vodka in his arm. “Happy birthday or whatever, Curly Top.”

“Um, Curly Top?”

“Look it up.”

Courfeyrac did. It was a 1935 Shirley Temple movie. Courfeyrac was a little surprised Eponine was familiar enough with Shirley temple movies to make an offhand reference.

“Still don’t get it,” Courfeyrac sidled up to Eponine later.

“It’s not that hard. You have curly hair. And an obnoxious smiley sunshine personality that some people seem to like,” Eponine said. “Like my brother. You’re nice to him. That’s kind of cool of you.”

Courfeyrac hardly knew what to do with all this unexpected praise. They stood in silence for a minute, before he realized Eponine was sullenly watching Marius chat excitedly to a newly arrived Cosette. The look on her face confirmed some theories Courfeyrac had about her feelings for Marius.

“Marius said you were the one that helped him find Cosette. That was really nice of you.”

His tone must have betrayed some sympathy, because Eponine immediately bristled.

“Listen, Curly Top, whatever you  _think_ you know-”

“I think I invented a really good cocktail last night and that someone just gifted me some vodka. So I think it’s the perfect opportunity to try and recreate said cocktail.”

Eponine blinked at him as she considered. “What’s it called?”

“I haven’t named it yet. But we can call it ‘the Eponine’.”

“Are you trying to suck up to me?”

“Of course I’m trying to suck up to you! You’re terrifying.”

She laughed as she slung an arm around his shoulder. “Good answer. Make me one and we’ll see if it’s worthy to be named after me.”

About ten minutes later, Courfeyrac saw firsthand how scary Eponine could be. Feuilly managed to get away from work for one evening, and he brought with him a scowling friend. Courfeyrac had said they could bring guests, but he had to wonder why Feuilly had brought someone who so clearly didn’t want to be there.

“He needed to get out of his apartment,” Feuilly said by way of explanation. “Courfeyrac, this is-”

“MONTPARNASSE.” Eponine stormed over. She was wielding a spoon in front of her like a weapon, and all three men flinched. She jabbed her spoon in his face. “What are you doing here?”

“I didn’t know you were going to be here,” Montparnasse said.

“Well, now I’m not,” Eponine said, zipping up her jacket. She stomped towards the door, but Montparnasse grabbed her arm.

“Eponine, wait.”

She glared at his hand with such intensity, Coufeyrac though it would spontaneously combust.

“Oh, no.” Eponine wretched herself free. “You do  _not_ get to touch me.  _You_  think you can physically intimidate  _me_?”

She seized Montparnasse by the back of his neck (“Mind the jacket, Eponine. It’s really expensive.  _Mind the jacket, woman!”)_ and dragged him into the closest bedroom, which happened to be Combeferre’s. The door slammed. Above the music, it was hard to hear exactly what was being said, but the fact that he could make out their voices at all over the crowd clued Courfeyrac in that there was shouting.

“Uh, nice party,” Feuilly said awkwardly.

“Thanks. You should get a drink. You’ll probably need it if you’re going to deal with your friend later.”

Feuilly nodded, and disappeared towards the refreshment table. When Eponine and finally left, Courfeyrac ventured a look in Combeferre’s room. Montparnasse was sitting on the floor, looking shell-shocked. He was next to an overturned chair, and a pillow Courfeyrac was pretty sure Eponine had thrown at him. There were also a bunch of pens and highlighters scattered across the floor. Courfeyrac wasn’t sure why.

By the time Courfeyrac shepherded Montparnasse out of the bedroom (and given him a cupcake) and tidied it up to the best of his ability, Eponine had left. He didn’t have too much time to miss her though, because he ran into Bahorel and his girlfriend.

“Courfeyrac,” he said, extending his hand to her.

“Happy birthday,” she said, handing him a hunting knife with a bow on it.

“Uh, thank you,” Courfeyrac said. It was only the fourth weirdest present he had been given that night. “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

“That’s because I didn’t give it.” She crossed her arms. “What are you, the police? You already know the name of my band and that I’m dating Bahorel. You know enough.”

“I’d feel weird calling you ‘Bahorel’s girlfriend’,” Courfeyrac said.

She rolled her eyes like Courfeyrac was being difficult on purpose. “You can call me….” She glanced around the room and her eyes landed on the bouquet Jehan had brought. “Daisy.”

“Daisy?” Bahorel snorted.

Daisy elbowed him in the rib. Considering she could be no more than five feet tall, and Bahorel was easily six foot four, this was actually quite impressive. Somehow this devolved into them bickering then-

“There’s only one way to settle this!” Daisy said.

Less than two minutes later, Daisy and Bahorel had cleared one of the tables and were engaged in some kind of complicated game that seemed to involve arm wrestling, vodka shots, and….charades. As much as Courfeyrac wanted to stay, watch, and try to figure out whatever the hell the rules were, he spotted Jehan coming in from the balcony, looking upset.

“Hey,” Courfeyrac said. Then again, when Jehan didn’t appear to hear him. “ _Jehan_.”

He looked up, startled, and Courfeyrac saw his eyes swimming in tears.

“Jehan?” he asked, more gently this time. “You okay?”

“I fucked up,” Jehan said, laughing as he wiped his nose on his sleeve. “ _I_ fucked up. Of course I did. I always do.”

Courfeyrac tried to steer Jehan to the kitchen, where it was at least quieter, and he could sit down. But Jehan seemed to finally realize Courfeyrac was standing next to him.

“I’m fine,” he said, twisting away. “Really.”

“You don’t seem fine.”

“I always bounce back,” Jehan said, giving Courfeyrac a smile that felt anything but sincere. “I just….I was out of my league. It’s better I fucked up now, because if I got in any deeper, I think I would’ve drowned.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Courfeyrac said. “Come on. Let’s get you some water, or tea, or something…”

“No. I need to get out of here,” Jehan said, adamantly. “It’s your birthday. You, go, enjoy it. Please. I need to go.”

And so Courfeyrac let him leave, because he couldn’t hold Jehan here against his will for a heart-to-heart and a hug. Almost as soon as Jehan left, Courfeyrac saw Combeferre come in from the balcony. To anyone else, Combeferre probably looked his usual composed self, but Courfeyrac could tell he was distraught. He watched Combeferre discreetly go to his room and shut the door. The least Courfeyrac could do would be to get Combeferre some of his blankets back so he could decompress in comfort.

Courfeyrac crawled into the blanket fort and was almost instantly greeted with a tangle of writhing limbs.

“Oh, god!” He scrunched his eyes up and heard a sound not unlike a suction cup as someone surfaced for air.

“Oh, hey, Courfeyrac,” Bossuet said.

Courfeyrac took this greeting as a signal that it was okay to open his eyes now. When he did, he was relieved to see Bossuet, Musichetta, and Joly (who was sandwiched between the two) all mostly fully clothed. Sure, Bossuet’s shirt was unbuttoned at the top, and Musichetta’s dress hung off her shoulder, but no one was naked. Joly was bright pink, and desperately trying to flatten his ruffled hair.

“Oh he-llo,” Courfeyrac said, grinning. “Enjoying the party?”

Joly and Bossuet looked mortified, but Musichetta adjusted her dress and said nonchalantly, “Yes, very much so. The food is amazing.”

“Glad you liked it.”

“The music too, great playlist. Thanks for including our suggestions” Musichetta said.

For a second, she and Courfeyrac just sat there, nodding amiably at each other while Bossuet and Joly started to squirm. Musichetta just raised an eyebrow to Courfeyrac, and he conceded defeat in their silent stare off.

“Well…enjoy the décor,” he said. Joly burrowed deeper into the pillow pile, like he was willing it to swallow him whole so he could avoid this conversation.

Courfeyrac chuckled to himself

On the one hand, his friends might be about to get laid. On the other hand…

“Please don’t have sex on my linens,” Courfeyrac said, snatching Combeferre’s blanket, and crawling out.

Of course, now Combeferre was nowhere to be seen. He did get an eyeful of Bahorel and Daisy making on his couch. He briefly wondered if that meant one of them won, or if this was part of their game still. Daisy kept surfacing mid-kiss and laughing loudly. She seemed to be incredibly ticklish.

Courfeyrac poked his head out to check on the balcony, thinking maybe Combeferre had returned, but instead only saw a forlorn R, who was smoking a cigarette and moodily surveying the city. He looked up at the sound of the door, and his lip twisted into a bitter smile.

“You here to yell at me?”

“No, I was looking for Combeferre,” Courfeyrac paused, suspicious. “Why would I be yelling at you?”

Grantaire tossed his cigarette aside. “I’m sure you’ll find out. I’ll probably be at the Musain if you do decide you need to yell.”

With that, he slipped past Courfeyrac, and presumably out of the party. Courfeyrac stood there, stupefied. It was just plain unfair. Not only were a distressing amount of his friends upset, but he had no idea what was fueling all the drama, so he had no way of helping. He sighed resignedly, plastered on his best hosting face, then went back out to join everyone.

It wasn’t until after the party that at least some of the pieces started to come together. Almost as soon as the last guests filed out, Enjolras began cleaning up the mess. He neatly grouped any leftover party favors, and carefully took the decorations down.

“Leave it,” Courfeyrac said. “I throw a party at your apartment, I clean up. That was the deal.”

“I can help,” Enjolras said, unhooking the tea lights.

“Really, it’s fine,” Courfeyrac laughed. “What’s gotten into you? You’ve never voluntarily cleaned anything before in your life.”

And Enjolras’s face just _crumpled_ and that hadn’t been Courfeyrac’s intent at all.

“Enj?” He said carefully.

“I’m a terrible friend,” Enjolras said. “I can’t believe I didn’t see it before.”

“What are you talking about?” Combeferre said, entering the living room, bearing several cups of tea.

Enjorlas gestured to the tea, even more agitated. “You always do nice things like this for me. When do I ever make _you_ tea? I’m not thoughtful. Am I even friends with you? All I do is boss you around and use you.”

Courfeyrac was seriously considering taking Grantaire up on his offer to find and yell at him, because he was almost positive this had something to do with him.

“Of course you’re my friend,” Courfeyrac said firmly, putting a hand on Enjolras’s shoulder and steering him to the couch. “But do you honestly think Combeferre and I would spend time with someone who just bosses us around all day?”

Enjolras considered this very carefully. “No,” he said. “But-”

“No. No buts. You don’t care about us the same way Combeferre cares about us, or the same way I care about you guys. You just show it in different ways, but we don’t doubt you love us.”

Courfeyrac was ready to start monologing about how Enjolras went to all of Combeferre’s orchestra concerts, all of Courfeyrac’s school plays, how he read over papers and helped them study, and the thousand little ways Enjolras demonstrated his love. But Enjolras was shaking his head.

“I’m not even being a good friend right _now_. We’re focused on me and not Combeferre.”

“Why should we be focused on Combeferre?” Courfeyrac said.

Combeferre gently set the tea cups on the table. “Jehan and I broke up,” He said shortly. “It was probably for the best.”

Courfeyrac didn’t believe that for a second. “Come on,” he said. “We’re watching movies and eating ice cream.”

“It’s two a.m.,” Combeferre said.

“And it’s a Saturday. We’re going to have a movie marathon, and eat too much food that’s bad for us, and that’s that. We’re being irresponsible for once. Birthday boy’s orders.

“Your birthday isn’t until Tuesday.”

“But we’re celebrating it today.” Courfeyrac said. “Now: _Lord of the Rings_ or _Star Wars_?”

They decided on _Lord of the Rings_. Courfeyrac spent a good part of their marathon plotting how to make his two amazing best friends realize and appreciate their own amazingness. At least the party wasn’t a complete disaster, if the various happy texts he got from Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta thanking him were anything to go by.

The text he got from Eponine also made him smile.

 **Unknown number:** we’re hanging out next week, curly top. you’re going to either make or buy me more drinks

Courfeyrac grinned as he saved her number into his phone. He typed out a reply.

 **Courfeyrac:** Sounds like a plan!!!!!!!! :D

 **Eponine:** take it down like 10 notches

 **Courfeyrac:** Btw, how did you get my number?

He deleted that question before he could hit send. He probably didn’t want to know.

In the grand scheme of how many upset friends he had, obviously it wasn’t ideal. But he would take what he could get. For now, he pulled Combeferre and Enjolras against him and kissed the tops of their heads. On Monday, he would start to think of how to fix everything. For now, he just held his best friends close and hoped it would all be okay.

(He made a silent prayer to the birthday gods that after this shitshow, his next birthday party would be 100% drama free).

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To those of you reading this, thank you so much, and I'm am so very, very sorry! October-December of last year went by at the blink of an eye for me. There was work, which just drained me of all my energy, there was apartment hunting, moving to a new apartment, going across the country to be with my family for Thanksgiving, then going across the world to be with my big sis for Christmas, amongst other stuff. That, and I had the worst writer's block I've ever experienced. Then I got nervous because it had been so long and I doubted everything I wrote. Anyway, hopefully updates will be more regular now.
> 
> I hope you all liked the chapter? At this point in the story, the characters that haven't met before have pretty much met, even if it was 'off stage' as it were. Inspiration for "Daisy" came from Rosa from Brooklyn Nine Nine. I was watching the episode recently where they were like, I don't really know anything about Rosa, and she was like, 'good. You people already know too much about me', when all they knew was she had an apartment that probably had a shower. Since in canon, we just know Bahorel's girlfriend as his laughing mistress, I thought it'd be a running gag that she refuses to say her name because she is a (mostly) stoic, scary bad-ass and it's none of your business. (And yeah, her choosing a name was also inspired by the "George Glass" meme running on Tumbr).
> 
> Speaking of Tumblr, I'm [here](http://babesatthebarricade.tumblr.com/). Come say hi?
> 
> (Title from Bastille's 'The Draw')


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